


The Art of Giving In

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers find out that Loki stops his mischief whenever he gets pregnant in order to raise the baby. The solution: get Loki knocked up. Surprisingly enough, Loki seems to be the one coming to them. But he's Loki, and he's just too complicated and elusive to give into whatever the Avengers want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Men Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

> If you're the type of person who doesn't like mpreg, do not worry, it's not prominent in this. (You won't be seeing him giving birth or with a swelled belly or anything haha.) This was written for the Thor kinkmeme, but I've edited it a bit.

That day was not the most ideal for a funeral, but Bjarte Brookson was that type of guy. Blindingly sunny backdrop adorned with New York skyscrapers, and a small handful of frail senior citizens playing a hip, jivin' tunes on their guitars, saxophones, and bass as children ran about, jumping over the marbled plaques of the dead. Bright Bart - everyone's nickname for the shockingly emerald-eyed & white-haired fella whistlin' and playing a mean guitar down the block at the steps of the small house he lived in with his father - always dreamed big, had his heads in the clouds, just like those buildings that weren't even finished in Steve Rogers's day, when cemeteries had ubiquitous headstones rather than marbled plaques that were too easy to step on accidentally (which, the children would say, make the dead angry and drag you to Hell).

Steve didn't even know Bart was alive until he saw his name in the obituary. And although our favorite Star Spangled Man found out too late to pay his neighborhood friend, short-time war buddy (though Bart was quite the pacifist), and favorite aspiring musician a visit, he knew paying his respects was the least he could do. So when he saw the rather happy scene, he wasn't surprised - Bart was a bright guy, and seeing a few old, old students (apparently after the war he became a music professor) playing such a bright tune, Steve did not question that this was indeed a funeral for his old friend.

No tears, no mourning. There was laughter and reminiscing, something Bart would probably prefer at his own funeral; and so, Steve couldn't help but feel embarrassed that he was feeling a little more mournful than the granddaughter who greeted him rather enthusiastically, recognizing who he was despite donning the old infantry uniform instead of his usual star-spangled spandex. Steve thought his friend was dead, only to find out he was alive (Doesn't this remind you of someone?), and felt a slight pang of guilt that he could not hear at least one more happy song from Bright Bart. Granted, the grace of growing old is that dying soon is no huge shock. But, as he let go of his white carnations into the earth, he looked across, and saw the most somber, grieving face--

\--and that face, eyes lightly damp and lips pursed thin, belonged to the God of Mischief, dressed as though he were from another time, Steve and Bart's time. Soft black suit with shoulder pads perhaps too big for him, detailed with dull silver lines and a dull silver tie. Hat tilted low, but not low enough to shadow his grieving eyes. Standing across from each other, one in an old dark suit and another in an old uniform, they were both men of great depression, men out of time, but no one seemed to pay them any mind.

"Loki," Steve let out of disbelief, barely a whisper, as Loki looked up, smiling lazily as he let go of his bouquet of scentless mayweed. 

 

They stood side-by-side, watching as cemetery workers carelessly shoveled dirt into the pit and the aging musicians continued their joyous tunes. As others laughed, Captain America felt himself on his toes, felt the hair on the back of his neck standing.

"What are you doing here?"

The normally mischievous god simply looked on, through the grave-men and the musicians and down into the earth. Was there something there? Had he done something to the flowers? Will the dead rise from the graves? The soldier reprimanded himself for leaving his shield at the mansion. He quickly turned his head to face the god when he heard a sigh.

"Bjarte was very much like _him_ ," Loki sneered weakly, and the soldier thought he imagined the somberness, the _affection_ to it, "it was almost unsettling how alike they are."

He felt doubtful, and suspicious, but he could not help that he felt inquisitive as well, quite unlike a soldier. "You knew his father?"

And Loki simply nodded - albeit hesitantly and slowly -, standing still and tall as a statue does, face carved with harsh, hollow cheeks and high cheek bones and a strangely sorrowful finish, something that Captain America could not comprehend in regards to Loki, God of Mischief and Chaos. It was unnerving.

"And his mother?"

And then Loki simply laughed, low and soft and almost soundless, with a small hint of the usual egotistic mischievousness to his smile. The wind blew slightly, and he held onto his hat, tilting it a bit lower as he laughed. When the grave-men were finished, Loki turned to Captain America, head held high and hand held out, with a devilish smile.

"Thank you."

He stared at the pale hands and long fingers, wondering if he just couldn't see the magic sparking from it, unsure of what to make of the unusually respectful gesture. But nevertheless he found himself slowly taking Loki's hand, shaking with a soft grip.

"What for?"

Loki tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, as he said, "For paying your respects to my son, and listening to his ballads," though the phrase could barely process in Steve's mind. Loki turned around, and disappeared. Not in a puff of smoke--instead, he simply walked away, with his long legs in a slow, graceful stride across the bright green grass, careful not to step on marbled plaques. But before he could disappear entirely over the rolling hill, he turned back for a brief, brief instance, and moved on, disappearing as though he were never there, a ghost in a cemetery.

And Steve Rogers, even from that distance, could not help but notice how shockingly emerald Loki's eyes were.


	2. Earth's Mightiest Heretics

The Avengers looked particularly dumbfounded, save Spider-Man and Thor, God of Thunder, when Captain America explained the funeral to them. The confusion of their faces were lined and clear even through masks and cowls. They huddled in the kitchen, after the sun had set and the clear blue sky became a dark night, with no starlight to guide their patrols but save a few traffic lights and the neon of red light districts.

"Loki had a son?" Wasp asked, looking rather conflicted herself, as she remembered her own father. Jan did not know whether someone evil could still be a good father, and the thought baffled her.

"He has a daughter too," Peter added, and everyone turned their heads towards the young man, small and thin next to the large, brooding Thor.

"But Bart never had any sisters. Or brothers. Just a father..."

They turned their heads back towards Steve, as though they could see the gears turn inside his head. 

"Yeah," the youngest member continued his usual smart-aleck fashion, "he said he had hundreds of children. That's what gods do."

"That is _not_ what gods do!"

Everyone jumped as Thor slammed his fist down into the counter, covering their heads as the mansion shook, debris fell, plates and cups and glass shattered, and the Black Widow's favorite brand of vodka spilled. It set JARVIS off, naming other small damages within the mansion with the same poise as always, but Iron Man and the others could not hear JARVIS over the sound of thunder and the Avengers' whining. The Hulk, all the way from his room a few floors above, could be heard telling them to shut up.

"Polnyi pizdets!" Natasha cursed, staring at the wet floor.

Jan lifted up two pieces of what used to be a yellow Pinky Bee cup, bought for Jan from Hank's trip to a molecular science convention in Tokyo, but said nothing as she hung her head low. Steve gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Hank did not seem to notice.

Tony mirrored Steve's tactics with Thor, patting him as gently as possible (and a good arm distance away). "Hey there, calm down big guy. Loki, God of Lies, am I right?"

The God of Thunder slumped on his stool, fists gripping tightly over the small crater he made in the counter. His words were bitter and brooding. "My brother is nothing but a god of whores and bastards."

The Avengers shifted uncomfortably in the silence, feeling out of place in Thor's pool of resentment against his brother, flooding the atmosphere. But Thor, usually one incapable of reading the mood, understood their discomfort. He hastily added, "And he lies."

Everyone laughed awkwardly, save Natasha and Steve. The latter wondered aloud, "So, he was lying when he said Bart was just like his father? I can't see how Bart and Loki are alike at all. Bart's a bright, peaceful guy. He plays music all the time. They don't even look alike. Even as a kid his hair was white."

"Asgardian-human genetic mutation, perhaps?" Ant-Man, Giant-Man, whoever he was at the moment, pondered in his mind. His arms were crossed and his mind as objective as he could manage.

"Enough of your science," Thor sighed irritably, clearly exasperated as he buried his hand in his hands. "This man must have been Aesir, with no Apples to prolong his age past a century. He is none other than the child of Baldr, with hair whiter than snow. _Bjarte Baldrson_.”

He looked up, staring through the blindingly bright, white walls of the kitchen, cursing the green mistletoe details of tiles. "My true brother could never turn down any momentary affections of our half-brother." 

Eyebrows shot up, realizing the implication. Hawkeye simply threw his arms up, walking away. But after passing the doorway, he turned around and ambled back in as casually as possible, slapping a hand down on the counter, leaning in towards Thor and pointing a finger, opening his mouth, but no words came out.

"You hear that, Cupid?"

"Not the best time to talk about bets, Shellhead," Clint murmured. “And it’s one guy.” 

The Black Panther, regal and unfazed as always, ignored the two as he noted, "There are many myths and legends of gods giving birth regardless of gender or sex. This is the first real-life example I have heard."

"Does that mean Loki..." Jan finally started (she really wanted to say something funny, that was her thing, but she couldn't think of anything at the moment), "is the one... who..."

"Aesir males cannot give birth. Even our women rarely do, though they are capable. When they have mortal children they leave them on Midgard in capable hands. Loki always leaves his scheming and his duties as a Prince of Asgard, to whore himself amongst humans and raise bastard children to adulthood, monster or human or Aesir."

Thor looked away from the tiles, and at the small crater his created, at his own hands. “Loki is different.”

Peter raised his hand, and no one bothered to indulge his academic behavior. He spoke regardless. "But Tess – she’s Loki’s daughter and some girl we helped drive away some crazy magic lady from her body – didn’t remember Loki at all. Does that mean he just left her as a kid or…”

“ _We?_ ”

“Yeah, about that…” There was more awkward laughter, but only from Peter this time. “I kind of helped out Loki, surprise! He was a good guy for a day! And he gave me a sort of ‘you-can-summon-me-anytime-you-need-me’ IOU—”

“Summon him forth **now**!” Thor demanded, rising abruptly from his stool and grabbing the small mortal by the small bit of slack from his suit. Peter coughed, gripping Thor’s wrists, but his struggle for breath was unheard under the loud cracks of thunder decorating the sky.

“I’m—saving—”

“It is time we finish this—”

A stinging beam zapped at Thor’s hands, forcing Thor to let go and take a step back, watching Spider-Woman stand between himself and boy, fiercely looking at him in the eyes and boldly defending her similarly-named comrade. (Their powers and origins, unrelated.)

"You have to cool it, Thor," Jessica said, voice laced with venom and a faint English accent. "You're letting your emotions get the best of you."

As the smoke rose from his hands, Thor began to feel a swell of guilt mixing in with his anger, unsure and frustrated at himself, at Loki, at Asgard. But Tony began stroking his beard, eyes narrowed rather cynically, and the god looked toward the man of weaponry. "Thor's right."

"What?"

"I'm not gonna use my IOU on ambushing the guy!"

Hank interrupted, "We don't have to ambush him. Being evil might just be his way of acting out due to PPD, or postpartum depression, assuming being a god doesn't alter his psychology too much—"

" _Hank_ , you're a scientist, not a psychologist, please shut up," Jan retorted as she rolled her eyes dramatically.

"He is a dangerous and cunning villain," T'challa said, nodding his head full of wisdom. "While an ambush is ideal, summoning him on false pretenses and combining our power may not be enough to both keep him within our reach and defeat him."

"I trust your judgement, Ruler of Wakanda, but I am confident I can defeat my brother with one fist." 

"Actually... I wasn't thinking of ambushing him."

They all looked at Tony, some curious and other bewildered, and one simply watching with disinterest as she would with cable programming while drinking hard, good alcohol.

"One of us should knock him up," he explained, with the utmost seriousness possible. 

" _What?_ " 

Apparently Steve (and Peter) was the only one who took it seriously, as the others laughed, and not awkwardly this time. "Tony, no. We can't do that."

"Cap's right!" Peter exclaimed. "I'm not wasting my get-out-of-trouble-free card for something like that!"

"Fine, we won't summon him for that. We'll do it undercover."

Jan harder laughed at the phrase, "do it," but he elbowed her, and moved to face the whole group. "And stop laughing, I'm serious! Thor said he's a whore, he'll go for anyone, right? And he just drops _everything_ to raise a kid? That's... 18, 20 years on our hands! In this day and age, kids are lazy as fuck. Too expensive to ship ‘em off to some dorm, they’ll be moochin’ off of him for a looong time. 23, 25 years, no God of Mischief to bug us."

"Yeah right, and what, we're just gonna get Natasha to kiss up to him? Maybe we should ask Thor-Girl," Clint choked out, almost laughing himself to death. Natasha threw a bottle cap at him. Thor looked most unamused.

"What's the point of 'undercover' if he'll recognize them?" Tony asked, as if he thought Clint was dumb. He really did think Clint was dumb though, at least in comparison to the the Inventor Supreme (self-titled). "We'll have to send in Jessica."

"I’ll have to decline."

Steve looked about frantically between his teammates. "We aren't serious about this, are we?"

But he was left unheard, as Thor pushed the Avengers out of the way, angry and brooding. "My brother prefers the company of men, that way he bears the children himself."

Tony simply chuckled, "Yep, that's what I figured. Just wanted to hear it from you. Hand it over, Hawkeye."

Grumpily, Clint handed the billionaire a crumpled $20 bill.

"Enough! Let us have none of this squabbling."

"Good to hear someone's not joking around," Steve said, sighing of relief. But as he looked at Thor, even with the God of Thunder’s back towards him, he could sense the dark mood, the resentment of the God of Thunder filling the room once again.

"I will take him by force."

“ _Thor_!”

He breathed in, chest out, facing Captain America, both staring each other down--blue eyes on blue eyes. Thor sized Cap up, with his broad shoulders and his bulging muscles, but the soldier stood his ground, head and ideals high. He tapped his shield, right in the middle. "We're heroes, Thor. Earth's mightiest heroes. We protect the earth, and even those not from it. That includes everyone, equally. Even Loki."

"Loki is my brother, and my responsibility. None of you have any part in this!"

Thor cocked his head towards the group, lightning sparking violently. The other Avengers took a step back, uncertain of what to do, and almost in fear of this God of Thunder, basked in wrath and fury.

"Responsibil--soldier, doing something like that to your own brother is not responsibility, it's," he could hear his own voice raise, and almost crack, as memories of a violent and horrid war started to flash in the dark corners of his mind, "it's evil. It's against everything we do and stand for."

Anger and arrogance flooded Thor's heart, as he shoved the war hero out of the way - deliberately pushing at the shield, and the bright white star on it - and walked past the Avengers, who parted for him. Before he passed the doorway, he turned back for a brief, brief instance, to curse the white walls and the green mistletoe and his dear friends, who looked at him with such uncertainty and fear that forced him to leave and regret.


	3. The Admonishing Spider-Man

Natural sunlight began to overflow in the Avengers’ mansion, almost too bright for the resident web-slinger as he treaded his way towards the kitchen. _Who’s bright idea was it to make the walls white?_ he asked himself sluggishly as he rubbed his eyes, feeling as though he were drowning from the flood of light pouring in from the afternoon sun. Cap, Iron Man, and Spider-Woman were eating their respective lunches at the table. Coming in later than Tony Stark himself was a sign that Peter woke up just a bit shy later than usual. It was 12:48PM.

“Afternoon Peter,” Cap greeted, half-eaten hotdog in one hand and a soda pop in the other. “I hope you didn’t stay up too late last night.”

“Nope,” he yawned in reply. Peter headed for the Pop Tarts and found them unopened. “Getting choked is a pretty good way to make you sleepy. Not sure if it beats counting sheep though.”

Jessica threw him a sympathetic look before turning back to her salad.

“Speaking of homicidal gods, Peter…”

“Tony, no.”

Tony put his coffee down. “Ant-Man was sort-of-but-not-really on to something last night.”

Rather than elaborate on the passive and pointless theory of his less intellectual colleague (according to Tony Stark), he stood up and slammed his coffee mug onto the table, a sign he was about to deliver a speech very much like a business proposition. He even smoothed out his hair and stroked his facial hair once through. But immediately afterwards, his eyebrows furrowed, lips formed into something in-between a frown and a pout.

“I think Steven here can agree that Loki, who just lost a dear son, whom he must have loved very much,” he gently placed his hand over his chest dramatically, “will probably be heartbroken. A parent should never have to bury a child, especially without a shoulder to cry on. Right, Cap?”

Steve Rogers wearily eyed the glow of Iron Man’s mechanical heart, and Peter could see the emotions flash in the old soldier’s eyes. Pete knew that Tony was just playing them. But the young man, with all his senses tingling, could not see or comprehend what Steve remembered, from the funeral or from the war. Instead, he remembered the look Loki had for Tess Black, the poised but prevalent concern, love, protectiveness, pride as a father.

Jessica scoffed and leaned back in her chair in a rather unladylike fashion, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow skeptically. “Do you really think Loki wouldn’t get use to the idea his mortal children might die someday? Instead of pathetically crying on someone’s shoulder, he’d prefer to kill a few dozen people, am I not right?”

“Well...”

He looked, unsurely, to Captain America, who nodded without a word. Peter said, “It can’t hurt to talk to the guy.”

His former mentor clapped his hands together ecstatically. “Alright kiddo! Get changed into something nice! Stylish, you know, something hip.”

“Hip?”

“Yeah, you can’t knock a guy up looking like Urkel. And you’re a huge spazz too, you’ll have to do something about that.” 

“Peter will do no such thing,” Steven Rogers interrupted, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “About k-knocking, I meant… ‘knocking a guy up,’ Peter shouldn’t have to do that.”

Peter laughed, trying to ignore the fact that Captain America indirectly called him a spazz. “I don’t think Mary-Jane would like it if I did that. Pretty sure no one will object if you do it, Tony.”

Tony shook his head, “He’ll obviously recognize me, Cap, Bruce, Hawkeye... No one else besides you and Spider-Woman here still have your secret identities.”

He nudged Peter with his elbow. "Come on, take one for the team!"

“ _Tony._ "

“What? Just think of it as a little espionage," he retorted. "Now go get changed, Spidey."

Pete looked at Cap and shrugged. He left the kitchen with a box of Pop Tarts in one hand.

 

The door to Thor’s room was large and intimidating, so when Peter knocked and received no answer, he did not try to test his luck. Instead, he spun a web and hung the box so that Thor would see it when he came out. He stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, gently wringing the hem of his shirt with his empty hands.

“Hey Thor… I don’t know if you’re sleeping or not but I guess I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday. Loki’s your brother and all. I heard little brothers are really annoying, so I get why you really hate your brother. And you’ve probably been through a lot of shit because of him, so if you want you can help us find him...”

No reply.

“We’re just going to try to talk him out of being evil – well, that sounds stupid but we might as well try first and then beat him up... but _just_ beat him up, you know—I mean, what I’m trying to say is…”

Peter rubbed his temple, feeling as though he probably shouldn’t admonish the God of Thunder. But he did anyway.

“Cap was right. We’re heroes, you’re a hero—a really awesome one. I look up to you. But even if you really hate your brother’s guts, I don’t think I could look up to you anymore if you…”

He froze up. “I mean, you shouldn’t… he’s the bad guy, I get it, but…”

A delicate hand squeezed Peter’s shoulder. He looked over his shoulder at Spider-Woman, who hushed him and made a gesture with her free hand towards Thor’s door.

The momentary, eerie silence was broken by the sound of Thor’s thunderous (but thankfully not angry) voice. It was calm, and Peter could have sworn he heard it coming from everywhere.

“My brother enjoys reading.”

“W-what?”

Thor didn’t bother to continue.

Jessica shrugged. “A bookstore, perhaps?”

 

Coincidentally enough, Jessica and Thor were right on the dot. Peter adjusted his thick-framed glasses and smoothed out his button-up as nicely as possible. He seemed to fit in enough, in this strange, unfamiliar part of New York City that seemed to only be occupied by well-dressed 20-or-early-30-year-olds – he could actually see the sidewalk, and there were no black blotches of old gum anywhere, and no dull and arbitrary sprays of punk kids’ tagging.

From across the street he could see Loki - in a baggy green sweater and skinny black jeans, interestingly enough - browsing the shelves of vintage books, and the upscale décor and the aging but intricate hardcover-books suited the lean, statuesque God of Mischief. Right when Loki’s back turned away from the window, Peter gulped and took quick steps toward the shop, reminding himself that he’s just there to befriend the guy. He shouldn’t feel quite as nervous as he did, but he twitched when he reached the doorway at the sound of the store clerk saying hello. 

“H-hey,” he replied nervously.

He strolled down an aisle and turned a corner, saying to no one in particular, “Just here to buy books… fancy books…” 

At the sight of Loki casually flipping through a small red and gold book, Peter stopped abruptly and willed himself in that aisle. He began staring at no books in particular, attempting to pass off as a random customer looking for a book to purchase (who also just happened to be sweating bullets). 

For some reason he didn’t have the courage to look right at Loki right then, but he figured Loki was still too busy to notice him by the sound of pages flipping. He plucked off a random book from the opposite shelf – _Charlotte’s Web_ , go figure – and mimicked Loki, turning the pages as nonchalantly he could muster. He wondered if Loki noticed him by now, and wondered if he passed as a hip, smart guy until a piercingly loud tear interrupted his thoughts—

“What—”

He looked at Loki – who didn’t seem to notice at all – and back at his book, which had a torn page right through an illustrated lonely pig, looking off at a spider that wasn’t part of the page anymore. “Oh crap—”

He jumped suddenly when Loki sighed, switching books – _Wizard of Oz_ , Peter wondered at this oddly fairytale-like choice of literature – and looking at him irritatingly. 

“Is everything okay back there?” the store clerk asked absentmindedly from behind his counter.

“F-fine!” Peter replied frantically. He looked at Loki, sweating even more bullets (he must have been a sub-machine gun in his past life or something). But despite the irking feeling in his stomach, he laughed nervously to offset his suspicious behavior. “You break it, you buy it, right?”

Loki looked down at him from his good one-foot vantage point, their eyes meeting each other’s for once, and Peter froze—he found those green eyes much closer to him than he remembered a minute ago, cornering him against the shelf. Their noses were almost touching, but neither seemed to breath. Loki smoothly placed the book back in its place with one hand, boxing Peter in, and held the side of the thick glasses with the other.

His fingers were so long and thin, Pete noted, pale and ghostly against the black frames. But the young man gripped onto _The Wizard of Oz_ to death and stiffened instantly as he felt those long, cold fingers snake its way up his buttoned shirt, and although he didn’t need the frames he felt disoriented when Loki took off the glasses. But they didn’t break eye contact, didn’t inch away from each other, and the god’s incredibly green eyes started to remind him so much of Mary Jane.

“You are quite a spazz,” Loki said suddenly—and the spazz he was, Peter jumped back at the sudden warm breath reaching his face and dropped the book he was holding, bumping into the shelf and causing it to shake lightly.

His cheeks and his chest felt uncomfortably warm when the cool hand left the inside of his shirt, revealing a small microphone and a bit of tape, which Loki easily crushed between his thumb and index finger. And with the other hand, Loki had already crushed the fake glasses, and Peter could imagine Tony’s exasperated groan inside the tiny stake-out van (which Peter called the stalker van) down a few blocks back, yelling random curses at the static-filled screen and the silent speakers.

The microphone and glasses disappeared in a dramatic puff of smoke. Loki brushed his hands off, asking in a low voice, “Should I escort you home, Spider-Man?”

“Err… Maybe I should just swing back…”

“But that’s hardly fun,” Loki laughed. “Don’t you want to get back at them?”

Peter wasn’t sure he liked the mischievous smirk, but a free ride back to the mansion and making Tony and the others feel guilty about making him do such a stupid thing? “Sounds like a plan.”

And so, Loki took his hand – he could have sworn it was cold a second ago, but it was oddly warm this time – and gave it a slight, reassuring squeeze, which was not very reassuring coming from Loki of all people, but he decided to roll with it. And, before he knew it, he was already back, underneath the too-bright-for-New-York sunshine and on the edge of the imported grass, right at the doorsteps of the back entrance of the Avengers Mansion. 

“You know, I imagined teleporting to be more like in Harry Potter,” Peter said, looking at their hands – which were still holding onto one another, but the God of Mischief didn’t bother to let go.

“Amateurs,” Loki muttered. He sat down on the step, pulling Peter down with him.

“Oh really,” Peter laughed.

“Though I suppose,” and Peter wasn’t sure what to make of the melancholic face, “Lily Potter is no amateur compared to me, at protecting her child.”

Spider-Man jumped in to save the atmosphere. “You’re doing a good job with Tess! Really, girls are harder to handle anyway.”

The immortal looked on, absentmindedly at the grass. “My first born daughter hates me, even when I gave her a kingdom to rule.”

The air chilled, and the sun shone less bright in a short moment. Peter eyed his wristwatch, and saw that it was around 5:00PM. He held onto Loki’s hand a little more tightly, giving it a long squeeze, and looked at him with attentive brown eyes. “You know that IOU you sort of gave me…”

“Oh?” Loki turned to him with a mischievous smirk. “You used it up already, didn’t you know?”

The young man whined, “Aaw, what? No way! This doesn’t count, does it?”

The old immortal’s laugh was an odd one, a strange mix of soft laughter to oneself and a maniacal evil laughter usually caused by the expense of others. Spider-Man decided Thor’s brother should hang out with good guys like himself more often to set it straight. “What did you want to use it for? To prolong your mortal life in face of a great threat?”

“Nah, not many heroes stay dead anymore.” He noticed Loki’s laugh this time sounded a bit more genuine and less evil. The long fingers grasping his hands were rather soothing, so he found himself looking at them. “I was thinking… maybe for my Aunt May, or Mary Jane…”

Loki didn’t laugh. Instead, Peter found himself being pulled up, looking up at the towering figure. The otherworldly man smiled down at him – once again, Peter decided Loki should hang out with him more, because the smile seemed twisted between grief and evil and amusement, and he was sure that grieved and evil and amused wasn’t what Loki meant to feel precisely when these words came from his mouth: “You are an honorable spazz, Peter Parker. You need not change who you are, no matter what lesser men may say.”

And the spazz found himself reveling in a sense of pride he hasn’t felt in a while, only to beam even more when Loki added, “Tell not the Avengers of this talk we had, or how I brought you here, and you may summon me whenever you need me, as long as you may live.”

“Spiders can’t talk, so they won’t hear a word from me,” Peter laughed, squeezing Loki’s hand with gratitude. “Mary Jane and I… well, we probably won’t have kids for a while, a long while, after what happened… But, if we ever do, I’m going to rely on you to babysit!”

A proud smirk emerged on the god’s face. “Wouldn’t you prefer someone more trustworthy? Squirrel Girl seems a better fit.”

They laughed together, hand-in-hand, almost as though they were kin. “Maybe with one kid, but seeing as you’re the expert, if our kid gets a couple of brothers and sisters—”

But he stopped suddenly, his mind reeling back at to Avengers, back to a certain brother. “Wait…”

“I have to tell you something,” he rambled on, a sense of uncertainty wavering in his voice, “something… something Thor said about you…”

Loki simply continued to laugh, but this time it was filled with evil and bitterness. “What did he do, call me a whore?”

And the boy – Peter suddenly felt like one – stammered at the word. “No—yes, but—”

“Or,” the villain said in such a low voice dripping with a cold, cold malice that to traveled to his hands, “perhaps he threatened to rape me?”

Feeling weak, his hand in searing pain at the death-like grip of a god, he could do nothing but stare at the God of Chaos with wide-eyes, stare at the twisted, psychotic smile.

“I’ll kill him before he can try that again.” 

And suddenly, Loki let go, laughing maniacally and bitterly. Peter stumbled back onto the steps, watching the statuesque figure fade away with the bitter laughter; a scarring sound eventually tuned out by the sound of the gates opening and a van driving in. He could hear Tony’s irritated rambling, but registered nothing—he simply stood up, cradling his burnt, cold hand, as the word _again_ replayed in his mind, over and over until long after the too-bright sun went down and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >we probably won’t have kids for a while, a long while, after what happened…  
> For those who don't know, MJ had a miscarriage. I wasn't sure how to refer to it, so if it's taken too lightly, please let me know.


	4. The Black Window & Hawkeyes

She laughed when she noticed that the pub was distinctly European – Spider-Woman must have been a little homesick when she recommended it, Natasha thought to herself. And although the Black Widow could not remember any particular place from her childhood country being anything worth reminiscing about, she did occasionally have the desire for some good, strong vodka – something smooth, with a warm and soothing burn, and something distinctly Russian. She wanted something to drink befitting of the harsh Russian winter and an equally harsh Russian soldier, and those thoughts made her heart ache just a little.

But it didn’t seem smart to her to waste away her money, even if she did have more than the average American saved up for nothing in particular, so she just seated herself on the closest stool. The square island in the middle of bar, door to her back, unnerved her, but nevertheless she ordered a mug of British beer from the middle-aged Asian-Caucasian bartender. The sweetness of it almost made her gag, but by the fourth mug she was starting to feel happy. Daringly happy. In fact, she even felt daringly happy enough to ignore Hawkeye as he strolled in like he owned the place – the bastard – and took the stool across from her.

She knew by ignoring him they’d start playing the annoying, coy game they have been for a good few years – he’d goad her enough for a reaction, and he was just too irritating for her not to react to. Ignoring his smug grin, she spun her stool around and stared absentmindedly out the black tinted window, hearing but not listening to the grim bartender and Hawkeye trade words. Although it was dark outside, she could make out a lean, dark figure through the black window against the city’s night sky.

 _”I wonder if I can get him pregnant,”_ she thought to herself, not even questioning how or why Loki of all people came through the door in a V-neck, jeans, and a black leather jacket. The beer must have gotten to her more than she realized, because even as Loki sat next to her she didn’t question the situation, or even turn to acknowledge the villain. She grinned against her mug as she wondered what kind of expression Clint was making.

“Sidecar,” Loki ordered, and the old bartender simply nodded and went to work.

Natasha snorted in response. She spun around to eye at Clint’s grim, pissed-off look. But nevertheless he continued to nurse his extra large mug of presumably American beer. Seeing him irritated made her happy feeling flutter, and she knew the swig of beer she gulped down was a bad idea, but she decided to off-set the dumb idea with another one.

She watched Loki gingerly pick up his drink – something orange, slightly coated with sugar and adorned with a curled orange slice – and compared the tall, cylinder glass to the god’s own figure. Reels of Loki’s pranks and bullshit she and the Avengers had to go through replayed in her mind, and in between each she could barely picture Loki the Home-Maker without laughing. She didn’t bother making her examination of him discreet, so when he continued to sip his drink with his thin lips without a single sign of acknowledgement, she leaned in a little closer.

“Is this a routine on your Tuesday nights? Drinking outdated cocktails next to available women?”

She was tired of dealing with Loki through physical force, and how she hated the length of his eyelashes. 

“It is much more relaxing than scheming with a tyrant who speaks of himself in third person,” he replied, looking down at his drink. That his lashes were almost ( _almost_ is the key word) as long as hers without make-up was grossly unfair, though not as unfair as being able to bear children, but Natasha shut off that thought instantly, replacing it with a twisted desire for mischief. He dared to complain about schemes her team had to deal with, and he didn’t even bother to comment on the “available” part as she hoped. In the back of her mind, she both cursed at him and thought of ways to seduce him.

Hawkeye didn’t seem to hear either, which bothered her most of all. She blamed that on the beer.

“You’re clearly in need of better company.” 

“I find Tadanobu to be perfectly good company,” the Trickster said, with a polite smile that, to Natasha, looked like it didn’t belong on his face. But the bartender only nodded, silent as ever, and turned away to scrub at the countertop. “You and your loud-mouth friends could learn from him.”

Natasha hummed for no reason. “A little quiet, don’t you think?”

“I don’t come here to talk,” Loki replied, as he sets his leans against the counter. He’s only half way through his drink. 

“Then let’s do something else,” Natasha whispered in a low hush, kicking herself in the back of her mind for being so forward. Her espionage skills were clearly getting rusty, and drunk.

But as she placed a hand on the sorcerer’s knee, she reminded herself that a pregnant Loki is the best of all possible Lokis, damn logic and decency to hell. The hell-raiser himself, as stoic as the bartender, did not flinch or move when their lips were merely centimeters away from each other, but she felt the smirk stretching on his face.

“I believe your archer is getting jealous.”

Her eyes fluttered to his lips. His breath smelled of mint and oranges.

“I don’t mind sharing you.”

She saw the amusement sparking in his jade eyes before he slowly, slowly closed them and leaned in – she felt his lashes brush against her upper cheek, and wondered if he felt hers when their lips finally touched, and it was a cool winter shock to her warm, alcohol-filled body. A million thoughts raced in her the back of her head, but she tried to focus on the tart taste of Loki’s drink or the softness of his lips.

But they went no further than a fleeting, chaste kiss. It left a chilled after-burn that tingled as she licked her lips, tasting a faint hint of orange and specks of sugar from the rim of the frosted, half-empty glass. 

He took the hand resting on his knee, and brought it to his lips. 

“That was quite lovely,” he said after a short peck to her knuckles, with more poise than a Disney prince, “but I’m afraid you’ve had a bit too much alcohol for my liking.”

She kept a hold of his hand, mentally comparing their skin colors – one a warm pink and the other an icy, deathly white that reminded her of Russian winters – and thinking of a reason to kill him with her mug. But the chill of his cold hand began to numb her fingertips, and only then did realize that her mug was empty. That was her fourth pint-sized mug.

“So you don’t take advantage of wasted women, is that it?” Her Russian accent was pouring through her lips, a side-effect of being a little beyond buzzed. There was an ounce of bitterness to it as well. “Who knew even you had morals? Not low enough to touch a _woman_ , the weaker breed.”

Loki naturally had inquisitive eyebrows, but one shot up in response “I care not for Midgardian or Asgardian double standards.”

He lowered her hand, but did not let go. “No, Black Widow, I would much rather not be killed by you in bed. Or by the one with the hawk’s eyes, over there.”

They both turned their heads to Clint, who was staring them down with dangerously narrowed eyes. Natasha looked back at Loki and smirked at Clint’s irritation, squeezing the cool hand that felt a few degrees warmer than before. It must have been the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream.

“A threesome with the two of you might be too much for me,” Loki admitted wearily, and that made Natasha laugh, the sound ringing out to poor Hawkeye, brooding alone in his corner of the bar.

Natasha leaned in, whispering into Loki’s ear, as she gazed over at the fuming Clint. “Join us tonight, and you can find out for yourself.”

It was Loki’s turn to laugh. “I imagine I would be tied up and gagged.”

“It’s a common thing for us,” she replied, nodding along with his statement. 

“It’s no fun if you two do all the talking,” Loki said, turning his gaze towards Clint and Tadanobu’s direction. “I always was attracted to the quiet types.”

She lazily looked over to Clint, who was still nursing his beer. “You will never be able to get him to shut up.”

He stood up, towering and mischievous. “I accept your challenge.”

As Loki walked away, Natasha stared at the cash he left by his frosted, half-filled glass, and thought that was way too much for a Sidecar. 

Clint tensed when he saw Loki standing up and walking regally to his corner of the bar. He didn’t get much of a conversation out of the grim bartender, who went off to a different side of the island to wash glasses.

Thor’s brother sat on the stool next to him, and he didn’t stop his eyes from wandering to Loki’s stomach. _Can a kid fit in there?_ he wondered, staring at small section of exposed, ghostly skin between Loki’s loose-fitting jeans and tighter V-neck. Both Loki and Natasha seemed to have an affinity for black leather.

“Archer,” Loki greeted, face dangerously close. 

“Psychopath.”

“I come with a proposition.” Clint can’t see Loki’s eyes, hidden through long lashes, leaning against the counter and looking down at nothing in particular. The lips of the God of Lies revealed nothing either – pursed, thin, but so slightly and haughtily curved at the side. His instincts were telling him that Loki was lying, even though the proposition wasn’t stated yet. 

“Rejected.”

“Even Thor has better manners than you. He would at least hear it out.”

“What is it?”

“Come to this bar as a regular.”

Clint shifted his weight on one arm, eyes narrowed and searching for a sign in Loki’s emerald eyes.

“What’d you do, booby trap the place?”

“No such thing,” Loki scoffed, as if the idea was beneath him or something. “Just come here as a regular, keep an eye on this place. Feel free to bring your idiotic little friends along as well.”

Grunting, Clint leaned back away from the liar, taking a sip of his beer, one arm still slung across the counter, his hand close to Loki’s. “That’s it?”

“And,” Loki added, and Clint absentmindedly thought about how thin the liar’s neck was, “buy a bottle of Jewel of Russia for your more capable comrade over there.”

Loki slipped a pristinely folded wad of cash into Clint’s hand, whose mind was still reeling over a topic he never wanted, or ever wants to, touch.

“Bet double-or-nothing that our dear Victor von Doom swings both ways. I’m sure your Man of Iron is convinced he only has eyes for Mrs. Fantastic.”

His eyes widened, and attempted to pull away, but Loki kept his hand in place. “How do you know about—?”

“Your little bet?” Loki asked, cocking his head to the side. Clint didn’t care about the bet at all, but he was starting to think Loki knew that. “Because you are all very much like Asgardians. Weak, childish Asgardians. And I can’t believe you would think me against sleeping with other men.”

Clint shrugged, miffed. “Hey, I’m pretty against it.”

Loki leaned in even closer, bring a cold hand to the side of Clint’s jaw, and despite the chill he felt himself sweating. “ _Oh_ , but men are so easy to sway.”

When their lips met, it’s a shock to him – like a momentary flash of déjà vu. Maybe it’s the beer, or the thinnest, almost non-existent trace of Natasha’s lipstick left on Loki’s lips, but as Loki pulled away, Clint closed the gap, grabbing the thick black curls at the nape of the deviant’s neck. Loki sighed, lips parting ever so slightly, and Clint responded by forcing his way into Loki’s mouth with his tongue, surprised to find the taste of oranges instead of lies. Their tongues clashed, and instead of thinking about how he was kissing another man, Clint thought of Natasha, whose green eyes he could feel on them, Moonstone, and Mocky, and Wanda—

He gripped roughly at Loki’s arm and pulled away, panting ever-so slightly. 

“You still kiss like a peasant,” Loki muttered, like a curse. But his smirk was devilish, and his breathing too still. 

And the devil just stood up, and left, giving a curt nod to the Asian-Caucasian man.

“You want to get your friend home or do I have to call a cabbie,” the bartender said monotonously, as though it weren’t even a question. 

Clint had Natasha draped over his shoulder, softly cursing Russian profanities, without having to respond to the grim and wordless man; and by the time he and Natasha were out the bar with the black tinted windows, Clint realized Loki never wagered anything in return except for a kiss, a wad of cash, a betting option he wasn’t 100% on at all, and the name of a brand of vodka Natasha loved only because Bucky was the one who bought it for her.

But Clint and Natasha went back there the next week, and the week after, and soon enough – despite his better judgment – the bar with the black windows and the grim bartender who asked no questions was the regular spot for the Avengers (and, luckily for Tadanobu Asano, Tony Stark tipped very, very generously when drunk). And when Hawkeye learned later that the Black Widow never took the Winter Soldier to that particular bar whenever the two went out together, Hawkeye would just grin and hum quietly to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys can probably tell, but I don't know much about alcohol... lol


	5. Janet & Goliath

New York City was peaceful in those strange few months, aside from a few minor super-villains. Henry Pym managed to start working on another paper (something other than Pym particles), give lectures at a few universities in Europe, visit the Vault, talk to a few prisoners without getting killed... his psychiatrist even said he was making significant progress, but somewhere inside Hank wasn’t sure if he really made those steps forward. Maybe it was the lack of money he was getting for his research (no one wanted to sponsor weapons capable of destruction under the name of science, only under the name of Tony Stark), Jan frequently being on his case but never really giving him the time of day, or the fact he felt like he was smarter than the psychiatrist telling him what to do and how he supposedly fared.

Whether in the lab or lecture hall, in a crowd of colleagues or students, he felt something gnawing at him from the inside; and when he arrived a week ago at the Avenger’s Mansion to his empty room, he felt just as empty.

The constant typing – he was working on that paper, his first paper regarding the social sciences – must have irritated Wasp, because she snuck into his room, and demanded they go outside. For what purpose, he didn’t really understand, but they went outside anyway to the park, as per Spider-Woman’s suggestion. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk in the park,” was all she said, more like an observation than anything, but Jan took her word for it and dragged Hank off to the park. It was a bright contrast to the wintry land of Belarus or the rainy island of Great Britain, and no doubt Hank enjoyed the temperature change, but he was itching for research.

“It _is_ a beautiful day for a walk in the park!” Jan sighed, stretching her arms out and smiling her typical silly smile. “And we have it all to ourselves!”

“It’s a beautiful day to get some work done,” Hank replied. But he smiled, because he had to – Jan tended to make him, even if he didn’t want to.

The wind hummed softly, picking up the hem of Jan’s long skirt and a few auburn leaves, scattered here and there. The stone pathway along the solemn lake was cold underneath his feet, but Jan and her animated talk kept him warm enough. They walked until the sun reached the middle point within the sky, along what Hank mused as some crude origin point, and soon his mind drifted off onto the subject of math, science, how many ants they’ve must have stepped on today… 

He felt a small tug at his arm, and entirely missed the Wasp shifting into her smaller, busier form. She pointed off towards the lake, making a strange face in-between gaping and smiling like a complete goof.

“ _Oh-my-God-is-that-his-kid_ ,” she whispered rather harshly, hands over her mouth (it didn’t do any good; he cringed right when she started talking). She was making the same face she always made when she watches celebrity-related gossip on TV. “Quick, behind that newspaper—!”

But Hank decided he gave Jan less credit than she deserved as he made his way over to the bench and picked up the newspaper as quickly and inconspicuously as possible, hiding behind a wall of text that criticized the Avengers and several of his colleagues. (He tried not to notice if there were any “Henry Pym”s sprinkled about, but took a small yet satisfying victory in the fact Reed Richards’ name was mentioned quite numerously and negatively.)

He casually looked over, eyes widening at the sight of Loki, God of Mischief (his mind tried not to think of the things Thor said), running around the grass near the lake with a little boy – running, like a normal mortal person. He was _laughing_ , even. It was such a strange sound, and an even stranger sight. He was surprised Jan actually recognized him. Without armor and leather – he had a black leather jacket on, but nothing that screamed evil villain – and bulk, he looked thin and tall and human.

The sound of paper crinkling startled Hank, and he noticed that he was gripping the newspaper a little too tightly. _I’m really out of it_ , he thought to himself, and soon enough he saw the little boy running towards him. He looked around for Jan, feeling completely clueless, but soon he had quite a young, dashing blonde boy staring up at him, toy rapier at the ready.

“You!” the boy exclaimed bravely. “You’re Goliath!”

“Uhh… I think I’d prefer Giant-Man…”

Hank left his mouth hanging a bit. His mind was drawing closer and closer to a blank as he saw Loki slowly but surely heading in his direction, with a very faint hint of a smirk on his face.

“I’m Robin Hood,” the small swashbuckler continued, crossing the sword valiantly over his green shirt and bowing courteously. “Join me and my merry men, we’re gonna steal from the rich and give to the poor!”

“Joshua, really, don’t lump me in with these… ‘merry’ men.” The voice was dry, but amused, and certainly not evil, which only confused Hank even more. But the sympathetic part of his brain was telling him that villains can be reformed, and Loki – with his parental ways – is proof of that, so he boldly looked up to the man and said, “Hello, Loki.”

“Hey Gramps, you know Goliath?”

“Ant-Man,” Hank coughed.

“Hmm, did you not say Giant-Man before?” Loki asked. 

“Did he just call you ‘Gramps’?”

The inhumanly tall man laughed as he laid a gentle hand over the little boy’s perfectly-combed-blonde head, who clutched at his long legs in return. The little boy pouted.

“He’s my great-great-great,” he gasped for air, “grandpa.”

“Listen to him not, _Scientist Supreme_ ,” the great-great-great (and probably more, his age being unknown to Hank) grandpa said, taking a seat next – right next – to Hank, and the child, equally uninvited, sprawled all over both their laps. “He might have inherited my need to lie.”

Hank wasn’t sure which issue to address first, the lies or the title, but they’re related, in a way, so he decided to go off-topic. “So… Robin Hood, huh?”

“Yep!”

“Too chivalrous for my taste.” Loki’s frown was contradicted by his cradling of the boy (who must have been seven or eight) in his long arms. The boy was content with just sitting in Loki’s lap. “Why must you be so awed by a man who runs around in tights and steals?”

The boy and Loki laughed.

“My nanny used to read me lots of Robin Hood,” the boy said. Loki started to smooth out the blonde hair.

“A lot of Robin Hood stories, child,” Loki corrected. “Your grammar and your grades are worrying. Your mother should get you a better tutor—perhaps a Scientist Supreme?”

Hank felt himself twitching, again at Loki’s poor name choice for him; but even more from watching Loki being caring, which was much, much too strange for him. Where was Jan at? He looked at the little boy, who clutched onto Loki possessively, which made him twitch even more. He tried not to think of Oedipus.

“There you are!”

A young woman came running by, decked in a fur coat and large hat. She had matching blonde hair with the little boy, but even under the large hat Hank could see the woman had exuberantly green eyes, almost like none Hank has ever seen before—but he turned to look at another pair of eyes, somehow even more exuberantly green, and they’re practically glowing with irritation. 

“Let’s go, Joshua,” the woman said, tugging onto the little boy rather immaturely, who only held on tighter.

“No! I don’t wanna!”

“Really now,” Loki scolded, but not really trying to pry the boy off of him. The woman – almost a girl, really – fidgeted around to get the squirming child off, but the ex-prince kept his regal composure. “You’re much too old to be clinging on to an old man like myself.”

Hank decided just to scoot away to the edge of the bench as the young woman managed to get the boy off of Loki, holding him firmly by the wrist.

“Thanks so much for filling in again,” she said to Loki. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

She turned haughtily at Hank. “I’m Mrs. Dallas, hello.”

“Henry Pym.”

She handed him a business card, so Hank handed her his. She glanced over the card for less than a millisecond, and Hank doubted she really registered anything when she hastily shoved the card into her extravagant coat’s pocket. He instead looked over her card and saw that she – or, rather, her family – was part of the oil industry. The leather LV bag and gaudy hat and coat should have told him that earlier, really. She waved goodbye and jerked the little boy away by the hand, giving an opportunity for Hank to toss her card and her envious status away from him.

“Is Rosa back?” the boy asked.

The woman smiled at him, “No… Hey, I have an idea, how about we get you some ice cream?”

“Wow, thanks Mom! Can I get a new toy too?”

“Of course dear,” she said rather dismissively, and the sound of the boy’s nonsensical chatter began to fade away with the wind, leaving Loki – who seemed to have scooted closer while he wasn’t paying attention – and Goliath, sitting on the lone bench, side-by-side as nothing but the wind and an occasional ant passed them by. The sun moved on into the horizon, painting the sky a deep, dark red.

Loki sighed. Hank jumped in his seat, but stayed petrified as Loki laid his head in the crook of Hank’s neck and shoulders. The raven locks pricked at his neck, and made his own hairs stand on end.

“Sometimes I think the better my first children grow into adulthood, the worse their own children grow.”

“S-s-so that was your child’s child? She’s your daughter?” he stammered, and his face felt warm, feeling embarrassed at his own stuttering and how easily flustered he felt just because a super-villain was getting a little cozy with him.

“Not exactly,” Loki replied dismissively. He sounded an awful lot like the mother just now. “So, Scientist Supreme, will you take me?”

“T-take…”

Loki drew a cold hand over Hank’s chest, motioning in deceivingly soothing circles. “Yes, take me.”

Hank tried to stay as still as possible, despite the jolt down his spine. His breath hitched. “Take… take you...?”

“Take me, as in _take me to jail_. I am a villain you know…” Loki let out warm breaths dangerously close against Hank’s ear, and it sent a rush of warmth and embarrassment over Hank’s cheeks and ears. “And you, a superhero. We’re here, together, alone. Don’t you want to fight me?”

Hank started fidgeting, but it only proved to make Loki’s caresses feel scandalously sensual. He tried to think of all the children Loki had, to paint a fatherly, good image of Loki – but his fatally curious and scientific mind quickly lead to the process of making children. 

“I don’t want to fight,” he choked. He tried to shove his hypotheses of how he and Loki could possibly be able to produce a child in the back of his mind, but it proved difficult with Loki’s hand massaging his thigh. “Y-you don’t have to be a villain.”

“That’s not what everyone else says.”

“When society labels you,” the scientist stuttered, trying to get into his professional lecturer mode and failing miserably, “then of course y-you’re… It’s called the conflict theory… You can change— _can you stop doing that?_ ”

“What?” 

“T-tha—oh my,” Hank’s voice hitched to an shamefully boyish pitch as Loki gracefully threw a leg over his waist, straddling him with long legs and rubbing down his shoulders with long and skillful fingers.

“You seem to care so much about us villains, think of this as a reward.”

“But Jan—”

Loki caressed Hank’s jaw, tilting his head up and bringing their lips together—it’s a short and innocent enough at first, but Hank’s gasp gave Loki the opportunity to snake a silver tongue through chapped lips. The chilled autumn air instantly heated up and Hank found himself panting in between mouthy kisses and holding onto a lean waist, because in all honesty this was the most action he’s gotten in months and his mind isn’t exactly in the right place. He lost his breath as their tongues clashed and the wet, heated exchange of saliva made him feel hotter than he should feel, knowing the possible and unimaginable bacteria and lies that could come from such a mouth. But any ounce of logic left his brain when Loki started to nip at his lips playfully, catching Hank’s breathy pants with almost swollen lips.

But his sight dashed from Loki’s lips to sharp bottle green eyes to the waist he held, swaying tantalizingly until firm buttocks brushed against his heated groin, which was trapped underneath tight jeans and dying for sweet friction. Loki draped his arms around Hank’s neck, kissing the neck and earlobe with a deceptive softness as he rocked his hips, drawing out a low groan from the aroused man.

The rocking was almost too much for Hank, the friction of their clothes but not their skin driving him mad, until Loki whispered lustfully into his ear. 

“ _Grow for me, Goliath._ ”

At that moment Ant-Man froze. Loki too stopped, pulling away and laughing, eyes gleaming with mischief. Hank felt a cold hand on his burning cheek, and hoped to God Loki couldn’t read his thoughts or his emotions – but his desperate loneliness and crippling insecurities must have been painfully obvious by now, even more so than his current overwhelming feeling of embarrassment. As if another blow to his esteem, the soft, innocent last kiss Loki gave him tasted of pity, and he hated himself for comparing that kiss with every single one Jan has given him over the years, for wondering which was for pity and which for love. Loki’s hand left his cheek. The other hand revealed the business card.

“Despite her behavior,” Loki whispered as he gracefully climbed off the bench and towered over Hank with long legs, “she is a good and loving woman. Do not take advantage of her leniency, Henry Pym.”

Loki tucked the business card into Hank’s shirt pocket and walked away, as poised and dignified as ever. Wasp flew along after him, the sound of her giggling and her wings buzzing carried with the wind back to the lone man on the bench, who was too winded and too busy ripping up the business card (and wondering whether Loki was speaking of Mrs. Dallas or of Jan) to register the sounds. 

She stopped in front of the exhibitionist, growing back to her normal size, laughing.

“That was sooo hot, and you got Hank to shut up, too!” 

Her laughter would have been contagious, if Loki weren’t a Frost Giant (and evil).

“You’ve got to teach me your,” she wiggled her fingers jokingly, “seduction skiiiiiiills.”

A rather smug and menacing smile stretched across his face. Janet didn’t seem fazed by the delighted, psychopathic aura emitting from it, but the lack of immediate reply made her shift a bit awkwardly. “For you, of course. I like you.”

“Really?” she asked, perking up instantly. 

“Yes.” Loki’s eyes shifted towards the ground, smile still present but suddenly a little less smug. “I like cruelty.”

Her own smile dropped instantly at the implication. “What?”

“You’re a cruel person.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pouted, crossing her arms in defiance.

“Oh, don’t be like that, I mean it as a compliment,” Loki explained. He tilted his head back and looked down on the mortal woman. “You are quite cruel to a man who loves you very much.”

“Hank,” she stammered considerably, “he doesn’t love me. You’re lying.”

A scoff. “I didn’t say Henry Pym. I meant Hawkeye.”

“W-what…”

Jan felt her face blushing. Loki smirked. “Just kidding.”

“It’s none of your business!”

“Be grateful. I am doing what I normally do not do,” the Lie-Smith said. It almost sounded like an admission of guilt to Jan. He walked over to her, and Jan kept herself resolute as she looked straight up into the sharp green eyes a good foot and a half above her, even has he held her hand firmly and placed something cold and ceramic onto it. “I’m telling the truth. Though, it may not be the same kind of love you're both hoping for.”

She glanced down quickly and back at him – but her brain caught up to her, and looked back at the yellow Pinky Bee cup in her hand, unbroken and un-shattered and as adorable as the day Hank gave it to her after a long absence in Tokyo; it was only one of the many absences, but he made up for it, she'd tell herself. Her mouth gaped, twisting and turning the cup. She almost didn’t catch the business card that fell out of it.

“I assume you are good with children, considering the childishness of this cup.”

Jan shrugged, mouth still agape. “I-I don’t really know… where did you get this?”

“Is Pym good with children?”

“I don’t…” Her shoulders felt stiff as she thought of the possibilities. “There’s no way…”

She looked up at Loki, unsure and confused, clutching at the hard cup and shivering in the cold (as hard as Hank, whenever he's really angry, and as cold as him, when he's there physically but lost to her emotionally), dim evening air. He smiled and reached for her head – for the first time today, she flinched defensively, suddenly less bold than earlier, but he only smoothed out the top of her hair, just as she saw him doing the same with the dashing little boy. It created a warm feeling swelling in her heart, the soothing gesture reminding her of her own father.

“Well, if not a good father, his intelligence and irritating need to lecture will make him a good teacher,” Loki said as he finished brushing her hair, patting her cheeks as though she were a child, and even a kiss to the forehead to seal the deal. “Though, you never know until you try.” 

Her mouth pursed, finally shut and speechless, Jan only nodded absently to Loki, acknowledging his royal wave goodbye as she turned around and stumbled along the cold pavement back to the bench, where Hank seemed to have recovered. She shyly showed him the cup (he didn't recognize it at first or understand the significance, sadly, but it was okay, because he went out to the park with her today, and actually got her that cup, with some small significance in his feelings at the time, she hoped) – unable to provide any explanation other than ones they would prefer not to be true, the two settled with reminiscing as they walked back to the Avengers’ mansion, side-by-side, in the cold night under the New York City lights.

And the next week, after Hank came home feeling a little defeated from researching at a nearby university’s library not equipped with enough to satisfy his research, Jan surprised him with good news that wasn’t about super-heroics or new boyfriends or celebrity gossip. His heart flipped at the news, and he didn’t even mind the catch all that much.

Jan found someone to help fund his research. The catch—to tutor a spoiled but very dashing little Robin Hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on the updates may come a little later (maybe a week or two apart), I apologize for that... I always get stuck with s-sex scenes ;;


	6. Iron Minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos & comments everyone! This chapter was pretty hard to write. It went completely differently than I wanted, but that's okay. There's finally some (mild) porn for you guys to enjoy, assuming I wrote it at least decently ;;

Despite being born into an elite and wealthy family, Tony Stark was a very down-to-earth genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist ~~, former alcoholic~~... basically, the works. Well, yeah, he was uptight regarding some things (super-powered vigilantes running amok  & unaccounted for, for starters), but overall he liked to think of himself as a laid-back, I-don’t-give-a-fuck, do-what-I-want kind of billionaire. He thought of himself as the kind of guy who could get everything and everyone he wanted with just his charisma alone…granted it wasn’t a long-term relationship that resulted in any sort of true, stable happiness. But momentary, fleeting happiness was good. Alone was good. He started off alone, and now he had some good time alone with Bug-Boy once again busy with research, Cupid doing SHIELD shit, Cap travelling around finding senile war buddies, the Hulk ruling his own planet or something stupid, the girls doing whatever girls do (he hoped taping sexy lesbian vertical-tango, but that was unlikely), and Thor moping around in his room all day.

Alone, he was better than anyone else. Sometimes. Well, the point was that he got whatever he wanted.

And right at that moment, he knew he wanted that Amazonian goddess over at the other end of the ballroom; dressed modestly in daring leather, raven hair tied into a slick, high ponytail, she stood aloof with a tall glass of orange-tinted alcohol between elegant fingers, something his father enjoyed drinking. He made way through a sea of stuffy elite men and high-class hookers with the thought of that ponytail undone, a mess on the hotel suite bed sheets. The closer he casually walked over the more he noticed her defined figure, toned muscles underneath soft, pale skin he wanted to see heat up and sweat.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he started off smoothly, knowing cheesy pick-up lines wouldn’t work on her type.

“And how much would you like to donate, Mr. Stark?” 

Ah. It’s been a while since his last casual hook-up – relationships and super-heroics had the power to get in between even the most irresponsible billionaires and their one-night stands. He should have known to go for something a little more subtle. But he’s already thrown the obvious out there, so he might as well shell out some change. 

“Ten thousand, for your name.” Chump change.

He expected her to say something “strong female character”-like, along the lines of “My name alone is worth more than a ten thousand,” but her impossibly thin and perfect eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

“Jaimie Alexander.”

They were both sporting surprised looks on their faces when Stark pulls out a checkbook.

“A hefty price,” his scribbled were always a little louder than necessary, “but worth every penny.”

She blushed, but not without a scowl on her face.

“Is this iron man bothering you?”

“Uncle! Where were you?”

And there’s where she got the hairstyle from…the way she raised her eyebrow, too. And they had the same drink. Damn, he should have known. To his own credit, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the God of Mischief here, looking impossibly sleek in an Italian grey suit that showed off dark green ankle socks on thin ankles. He must have walked right out from The Sartorialist’s website. Tony could even imagine Loki pulling himself out from a computer screen, because honestly it didn’t seem impossible for him.

Almost nothing seemed impossible for this Trickster, so he stopped being surprised at the weird shit Loki’s magic causes. Getting him pregnant didn’t seem that impossible anymore either.

“I trust you are being civil, Stark.” The tall god looked down at Tony – his checkbook, actually – rather dismissively. 

“Mr. Stark just donated ten thousand.” She held onto the check for dear life, looking conflicted. “Even though his intentions were disgusting… Should I be grateful?”

“Jaimie, this is a charity gala, and this is _Tony Stark_. He might as well have thrown a penny at you.”

Already at this point, Tony wanted to strangle the Trickster with that scarf. Who wears a scarf and shows off their ankle socks at a charity gala this high-class? Goddamn hipster. He especially wanted to mess with Loki’s slicked back hair. On hotel suite bed sheets. In between those strong legs.

“Jaimie just recently became the director of an orphanage in California, but she’s in need of some assistance,” Loki stated, hands behind his back like some sort of casual lecturer.

“Yes,” she admitted, face hard and forehead furrowed in an attempt not to look too hurt. “Lately there haven’t been enough foster parents. The orphanage was already too crowded, but now…”

“It’s a good thing you got that extra ten thousand,” Tony said, trying to act smoothly in hopes that he wouldn’t come off as smug (which is how he came off). “Could whip up a treat for those kids. Ice cream, maybe?”

“But…with the state cracking down on illegal immigrants and the government barely leaving the ‘Tough on Crime’ policy,” Loki held a nonchalant face, absentmindedly looking through his half-empty glass, “there are more and more children by the month. I’m sure they would prefer a roof over their heads than ice cream.” 

The director nodded in agreement, but Iron Man didn’t want to touch the subject of illegal immigration at all, not even with a twenty-foot pole, or even a photon blast. He needed to think of a careful and subtle segue, not to pull on his stiff collar awkwardly as Loki stared him down with vibrant green eyes – even if he did find it strangely sexy. Man, he wasn’t even into guys (as much as girls). Tony prayed he wasn’t reeking of desperation.

“I’ve got a pretty nice roof in California,” he coughed. “Not just the roof, the whole mansion is just as nice. You should come see it sometime.”

Now he had two people staring him down. The way they had a single eyebrow raised was eerily similar. But the Amazonian’s demeaning attention broke away from him, now directed towards some rambunctious hollering across the ball room.

“Jaime, you go have a chat with the mayor while I wring out some more funds from Mr. Stark,” the “uncle” said as he gestured towards the hollering. “Make sure to emphasize how much you hate Spider-Man.”

“But I don’t hate—”

He hushed her. “No one does, woman. Not even I, who hates all things.”

“Tell me about it,” Tony muttered.

“Perhaps I should,” he whispered low, leaning in close as he waved his ambiguous relative away. “But first, tell me more about this mansion.”

Tony Stark knew this game very well. He was rusty, but hey, he was just warming up.

“Why tell you when I can show you?” He tried not to smirk as he took a sip of champagne. “We’ll be there in an hour if we take the jet.”

“This will be the first time I’ve been in the Quinjet.”

“Not that jet.”

A casual shrug. “It wouldn’t have been my first time anyway.”

The freezing New York night air attacked them from all sides, but unsurprisingly Loki walked on—tall, unfazed as white flakes dusted his contrasting ebony hair and the silence of the night tugged them away from the warm sounds of the gala. The chaotic god almost looked at peace looking out the limo window, against the dark backdrop of the city skyline; almost serene with glossy green eyes, large and round, absentmindedly staring at nothing in particular while deep in thought. But, Iron Man knew better, and the vacant stare adorning the Trickster’s sullen, pale face either meant he was simply playing the part or he was bored. The last thing anyone wanted was a bored Loki.

“You cold?”

“Being cold is impossible for me.”

“Because this limo automatically adj—”

“But I am tired,” Loki sighed, suddenly lazing against Iron Man’s side, arm lazily thrown over the arc reactor. “I may have had too much to drink.”

“You can get drunk?”

Tony inhaled just slightly, taking in the alluring sight of the man seductively dragging a finger across his chest in circles, just barely touching his arc reactor. It made the multi-talented billionaire edgy—and a little hot under the collar.

“That’s what most Midgardian women say to you at this point, isn’t it?” A sly smile crept across the Trickster’s face.

The limousine came to a stop, along with the falling snow from the black sky. JARVIS opened the door.

Tony took Loki’s hands, long fingers covered underneath quality leather gloves. The showy superhero wondered if they were just for show, or maybe the psychopath had his nails filed so he could claw Tony's face off. Loki, his smile long and thin and almost cynical, said, “I find that those type of women lie as much as I do.”

“No freaking way,” Tony chuckled, as he guided Loki up the stair car into the sleek jet. “How do you like it? It’s the latest model.”

“Hmm. I can imagine you having many ‘models’ around,” the God of Lies said absentmindedly, taking a seat without even bothering to admire the posh styling and spaciousness of the billion dollar jet. “Pour me a glass of whatever you have, Stark.”

The jet took off so smoothly, Tony didn’t even notice. Maybe he was too engrossed with his guest, but he would never admit it.

The proud owner of said jet grumbled and dropped down on the chair across from Loki with a bottle of scotch and two shot glasses, then threw out the age and cost of the scotch as casually as possible. He was about to finishing pouring the scotch when Loki mechanically tore his gloves off, similar to a surgeon with precision; somehow, just watching his long pale fingers exposing themselves to the dim but illuminating jet light was captivating. They were dangerous, those fingers, but they were so close to him, with defined wrists and knuckles. He felt a sudden urge kiss them, those long fingers that took a half-empty shot glass from him.

He could barely register the frost trickling across the glass until it shattered—seconds of cracking until the shattering. Tony covered his eyes from the shards flying in every direction just in time, hearing Loki’s laugh over the shattering of the glass and bottle of scotch he dropped.

“You should have seen the look on your face,” he continued laughing as though it were a cheap knock-knock joke. "I rarely get the pleasure with the suit concealing your face. Almost like Doom."

“What the hell was that for?!” He should have complained about being compared to Dr. Victor von Dumbass, but nevertheless. God, he _hated_ magic.

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

He almost flinched when Loki reached out, gingerly brushing at the small cut across his face, exposed and uncovered with a suit of iron to shield him.

“Numbers, models, money…” He rubbed at the red substance between his thumb and index finger, tilting his head as he stared at the blood as if something about Tony’s blood was particularly fascinating. It somehow managed to arouse Tony and give him the creeps. “That may impress the whores you normally throw into here but if you really want someone of my caliber you’ll have to try harder.”

Tony laid back into the chair, attempting to come off as casual so that it didn’t seem like he was scared and somehow turned on by this psycho. What was this sociopath's secret? (Besides being insane and hot.) He groaned at the unnecessary amount of effort he had to put into getting laid with one of his greatest enemies. This should count as a hundred notches on the bed post.

“What do you want to talk about then, politics?”

“Aah, a good topic.”

Tony groaned even louder. Loki laughed, a little richer this time, albeit still with an evil tint to it.

“With a man of your influence, why not run for office? You can rule a city or state in a different way I’m planning to,” the evil bastard suggested, propping his elbow on the armrest like a lazy king on his throne. “Though it’ll take a skillful tongue to convince anyone to vote for an alcoholic.”

“ _Former_ alcoholic. I’ve been sober for a long time,” the sober man lied through his grinding teeth. “Besides, I have enough influence as it is. I’ve got money.”

Loki brought his chin up high, glaring down at through slits, a sight he often witnessed. “There’s that talk of money again. Just who do you take me for?”

“Evil bastard? Sociopath?”

“A sociopath? Not a psychopath? I’m quite flattered.”

“I don’t even know the difference.”

“They are considered the same in Asgard anyway.”

He felt a small trickle of blood run down his cheek.

“You don’t say…” He dragged on, leaning back and crossing his legs as suavely as possible. “Then, Sociopath, what sort of politics should I get into? Saving the world isn’t enough?”

“You and your little super friends have only saved the world a few times,” Loki said, as if saving the world was no big fucking deal. 

Iron Man brushed away the blood with a napkin, the feeling of running blood gone.

“New York, California, America, whatever. We save peoples’ lives...from you and your little psycho friends—” Loki scowled, “I don’t have _friends_ ,” but it went unnoticed, “—might I add. You tryin’ to play me into losing my rep or what?”

“Now you’re putting me on Osborn’s level?”

“If you’re talking charity, I already do my part,” he shot back, irritated. 

“Yes, what was it… the Maria Stark Foundation? Isn’t that just to fund more of your little playtime heroics? Would your mother really want to have a foundation like that named after her?”

Tony shot up, storming dangerously close to the super-villain. “ _What are you trying to say?_

The villain looked completely unfazed. “If I know mothers well enough I would think they would want some worthier and more heroic cause named after them. Education? Poverty? Children maybe?”

Long arms wrapped around Tony’s neck, dragging him down close. He shivered from the hot breath in his ear that made him want to do indecent things.

“Not everyone suffers at the hand of someone as psychotic as me.”

The jet shook slightly underneath their feet—in response, Tony grabbed Loki’s arm and jerked him out of his seat, hoping the grip on his arm was tight enough to hurt and get him to shut up. “Ooh, angry, aren’t we?” he could hear as he threw open the jet door. As they made their way down the stair car, Tony looked back and glared at Loki’s stupidly handsome face, smirking and belittling the billionaire.

When they reached the limo, Tony threw Loki inside as forcefully as he could and the slammed the door behind them, and the limo took off.

“ _Ah_ ," Loki's voice hitched. "Be gentle with me, please."

They stopped, brown eyes staring into green.

"...is what you want to hear, isn’t it?” Loki laughed.

Tony pushed him down against the plush car seat, _hard_ , muttering, “Just shut up for once,” before diving at thin lips, ravishing them heatedly and fervently as Loki responded by wrapping long legs around his waist and boldly pressing their bodies closer. He ripped open his own collar, not caring for the buttons that flew, letting the heat rush out as he continued to enjoy the taste of Loki. Jesus, even without talking the God of Mischief’s mouth still managed to drive him crazy, in an entirely different way. He couldn’t stop himself from grinding against the flushed, lithe body, cursing the layers of clothing between them as one hand attempted to touch hot skin while the other groped at a perfectly sculpted ass.

He was about to remove the scarf when Loki stopped him. After a few long, languid kisses, Loki stopped, but didn’t stray far from Tony’s lips.

“Let us continue inside,” he said, in a hushed tone that sent all of his blood and oxygen downwards. He noticed Loki's pale cheek had a light smear of red.

As they made their way outside he could see the hazy purple-orange California sky, obscured by a large mansion. Loki stopped along the pathway, absentmindedly observing the mansion and the area around, but Tony didn’t bother with him, quickly rushing past him and pulling out the keys. But once the door opened, Loki strolled inside and dragged Tony along. 

“Where to?” Tony asked in between kisses. He was surprised at the amount of kissing the super-villain did. “Master bedroom’s all the way at the top.”

“Fool,” Loki gave his lip a small bite, “we’re not sleeping. We won’t find ourselves in need of a bed tonight.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” he replied, ripping away the expensive scarf so he could attack Loki’s beautifully pale and soft neck with kisses, taking advantage of their stark height difference. A small gasp escaped thin lips as they backed into a wall. The barrage of licking and kissing continued as Tony shoved their coats off and began to fumble with his belt. He almost freed his hard, leaking cock from its frustrating constraint when a pale hand stopped him.

He stared in disbelief at the cockblocking asshole. “What?”

“What is in there?”

Loki pointed to the door next to them.

“Ugh,” Tony grunted, attempting to shove his tongue down the Trickster’s throat again to get him to shut up, only for Loki to move away from him. “It’s my workshop.”

“Please tell me you’re not here to steal my designs or something,” Iron Man groaned as Loki opened the door.

Loki grabbed him by the collar and gave him another kiss before dragging him down the stairs. “You work in here?”

“There’s nothing weapons related in there.”

The room was poorly lit, dusty, and cluttered with random mechanical parts. But it didn't deter the said cockblocking asshole, who was practically glowing, emanating sex and lust. 

“I can imagine it,” the God of Lies said suddenly. He pushed the confused man down on a chair nearby his work station and began kissing and sucking his earlobe, hands roaming around his body.

“You working in here for hours, calculating, creating weapons of destruction…”

 _Oh God_ , Tony thought, _he’s getting off on this._

The kisses and roaming, caressing hands moved further down south, along with every ounce of Tony Stark’s sanity and self control. Loki, God of Mischief, was on his knees, mouthing a wet erection trapped underneath cloth—Tony gasped, bucking his hips up to follow more of this warmth. Loki looked up, giving Tony a glance with icy, piercing green eyes. His lips were a contrasting hot, flushed pink on moon-white skin as he skillfully took the zipper between his teeth and pulled down.

“Shit,” the playboy cursed, gripping at the arm rests as Loki finally freed his throbbing dick and gave it a decisive stroke with long fingers. “I’ve seen you on your knees before but this is…”

Loki licked the precome away from the tip of Tony’s cock. He dragged his tongue along the pulsing length and back, sucking at the tip and massaging the balls. Tony only looked and didn’t dare to touch, mouth gasping when Loki took his whole cock into that hot, wet mouth. His mind was too fogged to enjoy the view of Loki’s bobbing head, thin lips wrapped around his own dick, tongue doing miraculous things. 

He couldn’t help it, thrusting his hips deeper into the wet warmth and watching Loki take in everything from the tip to the base. God, he was at the edge—

Loki released his dick and began licking at the tip again, stroking the rest with slender fingers—

Barely a few strokes and Tony already saw white. He would have enjoyed the sudden euphoria of releasing his load, or the view of Loki on his knees, ebony hair coated with white that wasn’t snow, but what stopped him was the look Loki was giving him – mildly surprised, condescending, and _bored_. 

“That was fast.”

Damn, that was a devastating blow to his ego. 

Loki stood up, wiping away the jizz and small smear of Tony's blood on his cheek with a handkerchief. The blood that was once in his dick rushed up to Tony’s cheeks.

He looked up to see Loki’s back facing him, stopped at the base of the stairs. The prince's hair was perfect and black as it always was, untainted and combed perfectly, unlike how he was imagining earlier. And despite all things he was reminded of his unimpressed father, leaving him in a room full of gadgets he made without his father’s help. “Next time you want to play, Stark, make sure you can last longer than a minute.”

He tried to sooth his embarrassment with the realization that Loki didn’t bite his dick off despite the opportune moment. Picking up a random gadget, he began disassembling it quietly, knowing if he ran up the stairs the magical bastard would be gone. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was better alone. He always got what he wanted.

But the embarrassment didn’t leave him—Tony Stark, undone by a few licks and touches by a psychopath? The next few days he couldn’t assemble anything, only disassemble, which reminded him of darker days. _Where is Wanda now?_ , he wondered. Then he continued to wonder about Pepper and Happy. _What’s Heaven like, Happy?_ And his thoughts trailed on and on to Rumiko, rebellious and beautiful with ebony hair…

Everything he thought of only led back to Loki, the slithering tempter with bright green eyes and a skillful hot mouth and ebony hair that looked good with white scattered about it in. He couldn't stay in that mansion without thinking about the incident, even when he brought women or scotch or new tech with him, so his only solution was to get rid of it. 

It took a while to sort out the paperwork and renovations, considering how old the damn place was, not to mention the extra weaponry precautions he had to get rid of; but it looked pretty good with a playground out in front, two basketball courts in the back and a garden in the corner. Hopefully five hundred twin-sized beds were enough.

And if the kids didn’t like it, he’ll just bribe them with ice cream.


	7. Victorious von Doom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awkward kinky villain sex.

“Victor.”

“ _Don’t_.”

Loki – as a woman, as a boy, as a man, as a source of power – was a treasure Doom desired, more so above all things (besides absolute authority). He was elusive, cunning, powerful. Just for once, Victor von Doom wanted to understand what was going on in that complicated mind; or, better yet, to have that inconceivable mind succumb fully to the ruler of Latveria. It wasn’t enough to have the body underneath him, no, because even on hands and knees somehow the Trickster had him wrapped around the smallest finger, dragging him along with every devious plan in the most subtle and unsubtle ways possible.

It’s been a year and a half since they have touched each other. 

“Now now, what troubles you today?” Loki asked, two years ago. Arms snaked around his neck uninvited, a touch so uncharacteristically hot and heated for the frost giant.

“If you insist on interrupting my work, _leave_ ,” he mustered, not lifting his eyes from the papers on his lap. He tried not to inhale Loki's alluring scent in. 

“What is your work but forcing the weak to kneel and grovel?”

Doom pushed the incorrigibly licentious man – frost giant – aside, standing abruptly from his cold throne, hoping the giant could see his fury through his iron mask, see the disgust weaving the expression of his already disgusting face. If that weren’t enough, he held an iron grip on Loki’s arm for good measure, only to receive a slyly wicked smile back in return. Neither men paid attention to the scattered military plans hastily thrown onto the floor.

“You dare to touch Doom and mock the crown of Latveria?”

Each low, deep, rumbling word brought Loki closer, lips ghosting over cool metal. Loki's scent, something subtle and indescribable, yet so overwhelming, seemed to cloud his mind. “You oppose to me touching you? Even though yesterday you had no qualms f—”

“ _Silence!_ ”

With iron gauntlets crushing broad, thin shoulders, he abruptly shoved the debaucher against the decadent throne of Latveria with a force that would crack the strongest of men. But Loki, insufferable and deceitful and at the moment repulsively coy, kept smiling that wicked smile, that smile separated from his own haggard breaths by a layer of unfeeling metal. He had to repress a surprised gasp as long fingers faintly traced his inner thigh. Grimacing, he turned around, beckoning a servo-guard over.

“Bring the chains.”

Loki only laughed, throwing his head back and exposing a pale neck as guards roughly clasped cold metal cuffs around thin wrists. Doom had the sudden urge to both kiss and strangle that neck – instead, he opted for securing a chained metal collar around it, while the guards secured the chains to the ground (though they all knew Loki could easily tear them away). Doom yanked the chain in his direction.

“I should have known you were into this sort of thing.” 

Loki emphasized his point by drawing a flexible leg around Doom’s waist.

“What is this? Pon farr?”

“Would last night be considered ‘pon farr’?”

Doctor Doom growled loudly as he stood back, signaling the servo-guards, doombots, and servants to flee the throne room, save one servant who hurriedly left a bowl of scented oil and left in a rush. The sound of chains clattering against each other resonated through the room as Doom firmly yanked onto them. Loki stumbled onto his knees off the throne, but did not look in the least bit startled or affected by this aggressiveness. He simply gazed up as Doom looked down at him, provocatively dragging his tongue across thin lips. It nerved Doom, as thoughts of last night arose—thrusting into Loki, repeatedly, until completion, only for Loki to remain silent and unimpressed throughout the whole affair.

“Is this what you’ve done with your immortality? Whore yourself throughout history?”

“And as I asked earlier, forcing the weak to kneel?” There was a crawling suspicion in the back of Doom’s mind that Loki was not forced to kneel, but rather allowed it to happen, which Doom ignored entirely.

Doom drew Loki up, fisting Loki’s oil-black curls with ironed fists.

“Forcing you to _serve_ me.”

The look of sheer displeasure he received as he tore the captive’s clothes off only made him want to take it further, so much further. Wide emerald eyes narrowed into defiance. But Doom simply laughed, and backhanded the haughty god onto the steps of the throne. The sounds of a gasp, chains rattling and iron gauntlets skidding across the cold stone floor echoed in the empty room. Fingers hovered over the bowl of oil, barely coating fingertips, but did not dip into the wetness.

Instead, he withdrew his hand and stepped back, admiring his work: Loki, in chains and tatters, pale skin exposed and perfectly flushed, with a rather large, scathing patch of red upon a hollow cheek. Doom kneeled down and sent another punishing backhand, leaving a bright pink mark on Loki’s white posterior.

The scowl he earned in reply fed his growing lust, so he smacked Loki once again. 

“On your knees.”

As he moved on his knees, gripping onto the throne for support, Loki glared over his shoulder. His cheeks were blushing furiously and his normally slick hair in disarray. “So this is how it’s going to be, is it?”

This time it was a hard, open-handed slap. A small cry escaped thin lips that went through Doom’s ears and straight to his throbbing cock. The room echoed with sharp slaps and muffled cries, until Doom yanked roughly onto the collar’s chain, watching the god’s back arch deliciously. The beautifully pained and humiliated look on the flushed face almost took his breath away. “Don’t cover that mouth of yours. I want to hear how much it hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” Loki managed to breathe out.

Doom sent another stinging slap to Loki’s firm ass, eliciting an inhaling hiss. “Liar.”

After a few more slaps, he leaned in closer, rubbing and feeling the soft, raw, burning skin. He moved his hand dangerously near Loki’s entrance. He could tell Loki was trying not to moan, but a pitched and shaky gasp gave away everything. It was these cries of pain, and the scent, that lusty and indescribable scent emitting off of the god's skin, that had Doom feeling drunk with power.

“You’re doing nothing to stop this?” Two more spanks and they’re both breathing hard. “All this power, yet you’re nothing but a whore who craves subjugation.”

Unlacing his trousers with one hand, slapping Loki’s ass again and again with the other, Doom freed his cock, pumping it once and twice with his fist as he hungrily took in Loki’s shaken state, ass burning red and eyes glistening emerald. 

“And yet you’re nothing but a mortal overcompensating for his lack of power,” Loki hissed.

Doom stopped. His eyes narrowed, lips scowling underneath his metal mask. In spite, he took the bowl of oil and poured it along Loki’s bare, sweating back and head. “What are you… _aah_ —!”

There was a loud hiss again as Doom, without warning, pushed his hard cock into Loki’s unprepared, tight entrance. Both were shaking and panting.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” 

He meant to sound in control, to sound powerful, but it came out harsh and desperate.

With chains wrapped around his hands, Doom grabbed Loki’s waist roughly enough to leave large, purple bruises on white skin the next day. He groaned as he pushed further, further in, savoring the almost painfully tight friction and the pained gasps from the powerful man, shaking on weak knees and holding onto his own throne for dear life. Doom fucked Loki hard and fast just for more of that sound—the sound of those pained gasps, loud and provocative, even more so than the sound of chains clinking together and their wet skin slapping against each other in a suggestive rhythm. 

Doom groaned, fucking and rutting brutally into the defiant body. He kneed at Loki’s legs to push them further apart, who stubbornly refused to move, prompting Doom to grab hold of Loki’s wet ebony locks and to pull. He fucked into his captive deeper, harder without mercy, pulling the ebony locks closer to create some semblance of control despite thrusting his cock ferally into Loki. Choked, tearless sobs beckoned him to hasten his pace, his heart racing and his heated length feeling so, so close to completion.

Words like “slut,” “whore,” “mine” slipped carelessly past his iron mask until he reached his blinding white-hot climax.

He could have left the panting, trembling man there, face buried in thin arms and in the seat of the throne. But the sight of blood and cum trickling down long legs made his heart swell in some gross feeling of victory and pity. So, he removed his royal green cloak, covered Loki’s naked body with it, and sat down next to the son of Laufey, amongst the forgotten papers and scented oil. The prince looked at him, slowly, with wide emerald eyes through long lashes, and smirked.

“Overcompensating indeed.”

***

“There is too much green here. You wear too much green.”

“Isn’t green your favorite color?”

“Hmph,” Loki pouted, while stretching sinuously beside the ruler on the firm bed. “I look good in green.”

Doom’s eyes betrayed him by following the long, naked body from head to toe. “And I?”

Loki took one of the bed sheets, _his_ sheets that was now tainted with Loki's scent, and held it against Doom’s bare, scarred face. Doom willed himself not to strike the man for his insolence – an action he reserved for special nights. He only watched the wicked smirk grow wider and green eyes flash more cryptically than ever.

“White. White is becoming of you.”

With a punishing grip, he grabbed Loki’s wrist and drew him in for a rough kiss, and once again the two became entangled within the bed sheets. For a month they had each other like always, just as hard and destructive and combative as their bitter hearts. They fucked each other the same way they fought each other, and they often fucked when they fought, too. It was always heated and sometimes hateful, and in the end, Loki always won, in a way.

But, after that night, things like adoration and passion might have found their way through the sheets, too—however impossible it seemed.

***

They were dining together in his spacious but empty dining hall, when Loki suddenly asked, “How does the name Valerie sound?”

Doom simply looked at the enigmatic man, and tried not to play right into whatever he was scheming, despite the seemingly innocent question. His behavior has been strange, as of late.

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, really? That’s a shame.”

Loki sipped obnoxiously loud at his soup; something they both knew irritated the monarch. Now, that was simply childish. First refusing the wine Doom picked personally for Loki – not that he cared what the insufferable liar drank – night after night in favor for water, then demanding random foods and odd herbs, then refusing to lay together. The childish sipping was pushing it, but Doom knew he would only be playing into the Trickster's games if he responded prematurely.

“I forgot entirely. That archenemy of yours, that Mr. Fantastic. His daughter is named Valerie, is it not?”

 _”It’s Valeria,”_ he wanted to correct, but didn’t.

“Well, Amanda is quite nice,” Loki sighed, so low that Doctor Doom almost didn’t hear. Despite finishing only half of his soup, he put down his spoon and patted his lean stomach, head tilted down and smiling softly; a very odd, disturbing, and horribly beautiful gesture for the normally poised and cold deity. Horribly unbecoming, really.

Doom grunted, finishing his soup and bread, wishing it were steak instead. “No more talk of names. I’ve seen enough names of children today.”

“As I mentioned many times before, it would be in Latveria’s best interest to send them to America, lest these poorly-cared for children lead a crusade against you when they grow older.”

“Never,” he forced through his gritting teeth, fist clenching on top of the table.

“The American Ambassador to Latveria is here. There is no easier way than handing over the list of orphans to him. Latveria has not the resources to care for the unwanted.”

The United States Ambassador to Latveria was an insufferable man. Not insufferable like Loki – not a mystery beckoning to be solved – or like Richards – a cocky and dim nut he tried time and time again to crack – but insufferable like the slow-witted Hercules, or Loki’s infuriatingly slow-witted stepbrother, Thor. Ray Stevenson was slow-witted and annoying just like them, but worse, for he ate constantly. He was a big man with a hearty laugh, a heartier red beard and an even heartier appetite that never seemed to end, regardless of tense and sometimes openly hostile relationship between the United States and Latveria. In fact, his appetite only grew with the hostility, and he seemed to very much enjoy Latverian foods.

The most insufferable things about him were that he had the American penchant for good deeds, heroics, and righteousness, coupled with an insightful ability to read others’ truthfulness that almost – _barely_ – reminded him of Loki. He also had the most irritating tendency to talk of his numerous children and make stupid allusions between antagonistic American-Latverian situations and his experiences with his wife and brats.

“What is your benefit in this?” Doom sat back and glared. 

Loki smiled. He smiled, he didn’t smirk. _Smiled_. One hand still on his stomach, and the other cold hand placed gently on Doom’s, he replied, “Nothing at all.”

Victor’s heart began to pace at this sudden display of emotion. It could have all been a lie; after all, it was so out of place for the cold, treacherous man, even if that man had been acting strange lately. But even so, he pushed it further by beckoning the happy man forth, who asked no questions. He simply kissed the cold metallic mask, kneeled down between the ruler’s legs, and put his mouth to work. And, in the heat of the moment, Victor threw his head back, saw stars, and thought that maybe, he finally won.

***

Loki had what he wanted, had so many things he wanted. But by the time Doom realized what was causing Loki to behave so strangely – his appetite, his mood swings – it was too late. 

After a long, cruel year of absence, there’s been talk of Loki in New York City. Doom found the place insufferable, crawling with superheroes and Americans and hipsters. How could Loki stand it, being in a place full of the self-absorbed and lazy? He looked for him at vintage overpriced bookstores, parks, charity galas. There’s talk of Loki with the Avengers, which Doom scoffed at--nevertheless, he needed one of the squabbling heroes.

So, out of boredom (not desperation, he told himself) he decided to blow up two of his least favorite laboratories in New York, owned by Reed Richards and Henry Pym, respectively. (Richards' being his least favorite.) Just as he wanted, the “Fantastic” Four busied themselves with the Doombots at Richards’ laboratory while the Avengers – thankfully, with no Hulk – found the real him, with a modest army of forty Doombots, waiting patiently amidst the fire and the New York ruins and the screams of scurrying Americans.

“Where is Loki?” he demanded them, not so patiently, once they finally arrived. He had his eyes glued onto the youngest of them, Spider-Man, amongst the rowdy Avengers.

“Hey to you too, Victor,” Iron Man mused in his usual ass-like attitude.

The youngest was about to sling some webs – really, webs? – at the ruler when he was stopped by another ruler, standing tall and proud and regal. Doom, cursing the ever-changing team, hoped he wouldn’t be there, so as to have more leverage as one foreign ruler against a bunch of ragtag and stupid Americans, but unfortunately the Ruler of the Wakandas was there. Two foreign heads clashing with one another on foreign soil (or water, in Namor’s case) is a messy, messy business.

“If your quarrel is with Loki then you have no business here. You should be aware that there will be serious consequences should you further your actions.”

“My sources say members of your group have been spotted with Loki. Hand him over or Doom will be forced to ‘further’ this fight.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hawkeye groaned towards the Black Widow, “I hate it when he talks about himself in third person.”

“ _No one_ likes it.”

“Enough!”

Doom brought his arm down, and the whole first row of Doombots shot the Avengers, but a star-spangled shield was thrown and no one was hit, or bothered to flinch (except for the Wasp, maybe, she was too insignificant and little to see). The first attack was merely a gesture, but as usual the Captain took it to his horridly star-spangled decorated heart.

“You heard the chief. Stop, or the United States will have to get involved.”

Doctor Doom simply stepped forward. “It is Latveria that is intervening. Loki is of Latveria, and until he is returned to Latveria, I have the right to turn this country upside down.”

“What kind of crazy right is that?” the Wasp asked exasperatedly. “He’s lying, right, Hank?”

“It depends on—”

But Giant-Man was interrupted by boisterous power – thunder roared, lightning struck almost half of the Doombot infantry, and Doom was hit by Mjolnir, hard. Doom bit back a groan as he lifted himself off the rubble and debris with as much regality as he could muster, cursing Asgardians and so-called gods and brothers to Hel a million times in his mind.

“Loki is of Asgard. Stop your lies and return to your bleak kingdom,” Thor fumed, gripping Mjolnir after it returned, “or I shall show you the wrath of an Asgardian.”

“Speaking from experience, that Asgardian wrath is some crazy stuff,” piped up Spider-Man. “You’d better listen!”

“Shut up, you fool,” Doom bellowed. “Loki is a part of the royal family now. As ruler of Latveria and commander of my army I am here to secure him by any means necessary.”

Stark snorted unfashionably. “What, you two finally got hitched?”

Doom should have laughed, but he didn’t. Not even at the incredulous look Thor, Loki’s brother in name only, threw his way. He stood firm, and his silence, which neither confirmed nor denied Stark’s statement, sent the furious demi-god charging towards him.

Mjolnir came crashing down, but Doom jumped out of the way, aiming a mystical blast to Thor’s head.

“How dare you suggest these… these repulsive slanders against my brother!” the slow-witted fool roared, throwing down lightning that hit nothing but concrete. 

They clashed again and again while the Avengers began to take down his Doombots with a little more ease than he hoped for; and, despite his very small ounce of what he denied to be hope, Loki had yet to appear. By Thor’s obvious reactions, the Avengers too did not know the whereabouts of the mischief maker. But they knew something. They’ve seen him recently, at the very least. He saw it in the looks of some of their eyes – Pym’s, the Captain’s, and, most importantly, Spider-Man’s, so blatantly obvious even through his ridiculous mask. So he struck them, but they merely stood back up and fought back the same way they always do: stupidly, blindly. 

Bots exploding, metal breaking, thunder roaring. 

It made his blood boil, how he had to fight these infuriating good-doers just to bring the ever moody and enigmatic villain back home. He ceased shooting mystical blasts at Thor, choosing to charge instead—one hit could easily kill one of the weaker ones, if he charged it for long enough. He was the ruler of a sovereign nation, after all. He could get away with it.

His blood continued to boil, angry and heated and craving to spill the blood of these fools who wouldn’t just _give up_.

“What are you playing at, Doom? Fight me, or you are not a true warrior!”

He easily dodged the hammer, jumping away from the God of Thunder as two Doombots descended upon him, but the young Spider-Man took his place, just as Doom hoped, sending fast but light kicks at Doom that only set him back a few steps. Doom returned the favor with a strong kick, sending the tiny bug flying into rubble and wreckage. The things Loki told him of Spider-Man flooded in his mind and it angered him; how Spider-Man helped saved Loki’s daughter, how they formed some kind of camaraderie through hotdogs, how Loki vowed to come to the young man’s side should he be called upon.

So when Doom threw his fully charged blast towards the vulnerable boy he was surprised to see a thin blur of red and yellow – _Spider-Woman_ – jump in the way. Everyone who could stop stopped and turned, wide-eyed and mouth agape at the woman on the floor, coughing and almost drowning in a pool of her own blood. Others fought on, perhaps blocks away or too engrossed in battle.

But she was a blur once again, and she seemed to slowly begin to fade away with the wind.

“Jess—!”

The Wasp flew closer, but as the wind continued to blow softly, red and yellow faded away to green and black and blood red, so much red; and Doom shook violently once the disguise lifted entirely. A god, left coughing violently, hacking blood just as a human would. Ebony locks, once curled at the ends, now matted down with blood. The Wasp grew back to normal size, standing in the pool of red, shaking and trying to make sense of what she just witnessed, until she was blasted away by Doom and caught midair by a scrambling Spider-Man.

Doom was distraught at the sight of Loki, weak and bloodied and right arm completely incinerated. And worse of all, Loki was laughing. It was hysterical, ear splitting, chilling. It brought Thor to his knees, simply staring in a dazed and horrid expression. All of the Avengers, and even the remaining few Doombots, stopped in their tracks.

“Where is it?” Doom asked, voice hoarse with exhaustion and dust.

“‘It’?” Loki managed to cough out, maniacal smile tugged far too wide. “It… it’s a ‘she’!”

The cough that followed was horrible. It made Victor wince, almost made him to want to cry, should he have any tears left. 

This was not according to plan.

“Where is she?” 

“You obviously didn’t like Valerie,” he continued hysterically, blood gushing from his malicious mouth with each word he spoke. “Valeria von Doom. No no, Amanda von Doom. Amanda von Doom. Amanda von—”

“ _Where is she?!_ ” 

Doom dove forward, only to be caught at the legs by Captain America, whose eyes, wide and distraught, once again betrayed his calm and stern grip. Doom didn’t even care when he fell to the floor among the debris, he simply looked at the pool of red and the crazed, laughing god in the middle of it. The Doombots rushed in to capture Loki as programmed, but the others kept them back with a flurry of bullets, arrows, repulsor blasts, vibranium weaponry, giant fists and feet.

“You should have been there, Victor,” he said, strained and serious. “As the father, you should have been there. You should have seen her the day she came out of me.”

“Loki. Loki,” Doom demanded, pleaded. “I am commanding you. Come back to Latveria. Bring our daughter back to—”

“You should have been there,” he kept on going, frantically, “should have been there to see me tear her apart.”

They made frighteningly clear eye contact.

“What did you say?”

“I. Killed. Her.” He chuckled and coughed between each word, and at this point his teeth were marred red. “She was so pretty, like a doll... but she looked like you.”

Spider-Man and the Wasp kneeled before him, trying to hush him, begging him, “Please, please for the love of God stop or you’ll lose more blood—”

“So I tore her apart, limb by limb.” 

His piercing, maniacal laugh rang across the streets, interrupted by his own suffocating coughs. “ _Just like a doll!_ ”

His laughter began to die, and his eyes began to flutter. This was absolutely not according to plan.

Doctor Doom kicked Captain America off of him, staggering towards Loki, towards the beautifully scarred and broken creature bathed in blood, whose eyes finally closed and ceased hysterically spouting what Doom told himself were lies. Mjolnir came flying at him, knocking him off his feet; but he simply stood up again, taking heavy, heavy steps further into the darkening ruins made by his own violence. A proton cannon was deflected at the last moment by his molecular shield. Arrows blindly caught and thrown carelessly away, despite the ringing in his ears from the explosions they caused.

But just as he was about to make it to Loki – that immortal source of power he thought he had finally, finally won over – Victor von Doom flew back twenty feet from a blur of American red, white and blue. Shaken and exhausted, he hated the sight before him: the Avengers, standing between him and Loki, ready for another fight while all of his Doombots were destroyed and he had no will to take another step further, mentally and physically. 

He fled the battlefield that was drenched in the shadows of New York skyscrapers and in Loki's blood, consoling his injured pride with new schemes of infinite power. If not Loki, then someone else, anyone else will do—the Scarlet Witch, perhaps. But deep down, he knew that the six months with the god, their nights entangled in the sheets and their days in the throne room or the library could not be so easily replaced. And never could he look at a child, or a list of orphan children’s names, or even listening to an infuriating allusion about Stevenson’s children without the name _Amanda von Doom_ replaying repeatedly in his mind.

In the end he put his pride and ego aside and shipped off a good amount of these unwanted children to other first-world countries, deeming that he hated children. All children. And if America just happened to get a good bulk of them, it wasn't because of Ray Stevenson, the overly fat and overly optimistic Latverian-American man, and definitely not because of Loki. Not because Loki won in the end, and definitely not because Doom was in love with him. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to the actors who played the Warriors Three & Sif...


	8. Loki, God of Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : graphic rape & consensual (?) sex
> 
> This chapter is so long and sporadic, it could be 2 chapters! Or a bunch of mini-chapters, because there are so many little scenes! But that would combo break the titles I have planned, so you guys get one really long, really messed up chapter. It just kind of…derailed. I felt like I had to push it out since it's been so long. Sorry for the long wait.

His dreams – they weren’t exactly dreams because they weren’t pleasant at all, but they were certainly not nightmares, because Loki, God of Mischief, was _not_ afraid – were filled with Doom and green, so much green. In the darkness of his dreams, he saw himself in chains at the foot of Doom’s throne. He saw himself forcibly held down on Doom’s bed. He saw himself, high in the cold mountains of Latveria, screaming and pushing until he gave birth to a broken, timeless babe.

These dreams, nightmares, memories, had not only Doom, but Thor, Odin, even the gentle and loving Balder. Sometimes, they would be one of the Avengers. At times, he couldn’t tell the difference between these figures in his life, all vying with him for his own freedom, as if it were something they could possess. But they never will, no matter how hard the Allfather or the God of Thunder or any of the pathetic, mortal Avengers try. Loki would kill himself or everything before that could happen.

But it might or might not be a lie to say when he woke up that bright morning to the blurry sight of familiar, happily smiling faces around him that he did not feel moved at all. His eyes watered, and he hissed to himself that it wasn’t the disgustingly bright Avengers causing the leak in his eye but rather the pain in his—well, everywhere. In his legs, arms, body, mind. It was that slow, excruciating attempt to sit up that made him realize he was covered almost entirely in bandages, from head to toe. In the depths of his metaphorically rotting heart, he wanted to panic (he couldn't, though, he felt so painfully _numb_ ), but kept his poker face.

“Brother!” a bright golden image nearly sobbed, “You have finally awoken!”

His brother had tears in his eyes; Loki could tell, even though his vision was blurry and his mind painfully numb. The sight unnerved him, even though he has seen it before, centuries ago. But what unnerved him even more was the bone-crushing hug Thor gave him (which Loki had definitely seen and received before, but did not want) especially at that moment. He froze and ignored the pain and the wetness against his cheek, eyes darting whichever way to avoid the sympathetic and teasing looks of the Avengers. The room was a blur of bright colors, splattered across the room – the Black Panther, Spider-Man, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Wasp (but no Ant-Man), Iron Man, and Captain America. In the back, he could make out the colors and figure of Doctor Stephen Strange, strangely enough, looking as tall and imposing and mystical as always. No Banner, no Hulk, the God of Mischief realized in relief.

“Let him go, Thor,” the Sorcerer Supreme commanded. “Even my magic cannot heal what damage your hug can do to a patient as weak as your brother.”

Loki’s glare surprisingly did not set the sorcerer on fire, eyesight adjusting to the sight of the cocky but admittedly skilled sorcerer.

“I should have known that wasn’t the real Spider-Woman,” the Wasp said in disbelief. She was as animated as usual, despite the lack of Ant-Man at her side (though she looked a bit weary, almost more than the other Avengers did). “I mean, I got this text from the real her, and I thought, ‘Why is she asking me to go shopping with her and Carol when we just went shopping yesterday?’ You sure fooled us!”

“You get a text from Spider-Woman and _that’s_ what you think?” the Black Widow asked incredulously as crossed her arms. She tried to look away at nothing in particular as she mumbled something about not being invited underneath her breath. Her bright red hair did not help his burning eyes, so he tried to focus on the darkness of her or Black Panther’s suit.

“Don’t fucking do that again,” Stark interjected, obscuring his dark view with his bright red, buttoned-up shirt. The insufferable bastard. “Getting past JARVIS and my security system, spying on us and listening to everything we say, eating my goddamn food. Not to mention getting yourself blown to pieces, you crazy bastard.”

Thor immediately released Loki, stepping away. (The rest of the team didn’t notice or didn’t comment on it, only chose to banter amongst themselves. Loki could hear Barton saying something along the lines of, “Hey, I’ll take you shopping, bab—ouch! Hey!”) Loki knew that face, the face Thor made when he put two and two together – he must have realized Loki, as Spider-Woman, was there the whole time to witness everything ( _everything_ ) he said. His face flushed with shame, and he didn't dare look at his brother. Instead, he made way for Doctor Strange, to check the papers as if the giant oaf actually understood what the medical and/or magical scribbles meant.

“Your magic’s very strong,” the good doctor stated matter-of-factly while he ran his glowing hands over Loki’s body, who flinched in response. “I had to give it a kick-start, so to speak, while you were dead – your soul was half-way gone, the trip to get it wasn't easy, mind you – but it’s keeping you alive, and it’s actually in the process of rebuilding your body from scratch from the inside-out. Fascinating.”

Loki did not like how he was jotting notes down.

Peter pushed past the Panther, saying, "You're lucky we convinced Dr. Strangelove here to help you out!”

The Sorcerer Supreme looked at him pointedly with a face that said, “Oh, like I haven’t heard _that_ before.”

“You should have seen yourself, man, it was scary. We were really worried,” Peter finished, not minding Strange.

The chief of Wakanda set out to explained, though no one asked him.

“He had business with Iron Man two months ago when Doom attacked," Loki gaped at this, “so he assisted in your magic healing right away and even agreed to stay and help monitor your body's and magic's condition.”

Green eyes widened. Loki tried to wave his hand, but found he couldn't. He then tried to get up, but it only resulted in a harsh hiss as searing pain jolted through his body.

“I apologize, I forgot to mention that your magic is also fixing your broken back,” Strange said, and it did not sound like an apology at all, as he pressed a button. The bed slowly – so awkwardly slowly as Strange talked on – repositioned itself so Loki could sit up and face everyone and their stupid goofy smiles. It was unbearable, to say the least. "Good thing you didn't wake up a month ago, you didn't even have a complete backbone. I’m surprised Doom was able to concentrate that much power into one blast.

“Now, you won’t be able to use your magic until your innards—” the Wasp and Spider-Man both let out an “eeeew” at this, “—and back are mostly healed. In two or three weeks you might have a full set of lungs, maybe two kidneys. Or, in your case, the… Jotun equivalent. You might even be up and moving and terrorizing innocent civilians by next month.”

A string of curses in very language he knew escaped the man. (Man, not god.)

“Everything will be alright, Brother,” Thor blurted out, before he could stop himself, taking his hand. “I will stay by your side to help you recover.”

Loki snapped, “I need not your help, you—”

“Should we leave you two alone?”

The Captain defensively lifted a meager bouquet (if you could even call it that) of mayweed when he sharply turned his head towards the heroes.

“Anything but that,” Loki groaned. He took a double-take at their gifts.

“What are you imbeciles being so buddy-buddy with me for? Are those... _flowers_?”

The Avengers backed away from the villain, whose words dripped with disgust at their concern. They hid their bouquets and “Get Well Soon!” cards behind their backs while attempting to look nonchalant, looking around the room and whistling aimlessly. The Black Panther and Strange busied themselves over paperwork and checking Loki’s IV, respectively.

The patient felt his eye twitch when he saw the Wasp’s in particular.

“Do not tell me you brought… a… stuffed… _bear_ ,” he sneered.

“Uh… it’s not for you,” she finished lamely. She fidgeted and tried to take off the heart stitched with the words, “Get well soon,” in cursive. 

“And you,” Loki pointed to Steve. “Did you not pluck those out of some poor senile mortal’s garden?”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “The park, actually, but I figured you’d like them.”

“What’re you getting your pantyhose in a bunch for?” Stark carelessly threw an arm holding a comically large bouquet of itchy flowers that was clearly over-compensating for something around Loki’s shoulders (who made a small hiss of pain at the contact and as the flowers scratched at his face, but Tony either did not care or did not hear). Stark waved a large box of extravagant chocolates in front of the patient's royally pissed-off looking face. “Even you can’t deny some well-meaning gifts. Especially mine. The most well-meaning.”

“I suggest you remove your arm from my brother, Man of Iron.”

He didn’t wait for Tony to consider his suggestion, he simply picked up the millionaire off of the bed and set him down on the floor. Sometimes, Loki thought, Thor could be useful. Sometimes.

“Dude, I made mine myself,” Peter said, showing off a folded piece of paper with seemingly nonsensical scribbles all over. “So mine’s the most well-meaning out of everybody’s.”

“Hey Spidey, newsflash, you’re a married man.” Clint snatched the card from him (“Hey!”), looking over it mockingly. “This kind of stuff is for moms from their toddlers. Besides, my gift’s the most thoughtful.”

Natasha raised a brow after taking a swig of alcohol from a ribbon-adorned bottle of cheap vodka. “You didn’t get him anything.”

“The guy doesn’t want anything, so mine’s the best.”

Loki sighed. “Hand it to me.”

Hawkeye lamely tried to push it into Loki’s hand, but because Loki was paralyzed, it simply kept awkwardly falling out (Loki tried to ignore the soft chuckles of the Avengers at this antic). Instead, he placed it on Loki’s lap.

It was a rough drawing for a twenty-something-year-old, with unnecessary explosions and other things Loki couldn’t make out. But there was he, with a bundle in his arms, laughing at what seemed to be Doom being beaten by a rabid Squirrel Girl. Although Loki did not deny Peter’s artistic skills, it was disgustingly childish. Sentimental.

“There are a few inaccuracies.”

“Yeah…”

“I grow weary,” Loki mumbled. “All of you, leave, now, and take your pathetic tokens with you.”

Doctor Strange adjusted the bed back while Thor shoved his way to his brother’s side. “But Brother, I have quested far into the darkest depths of the farthest realms for—”

Loki did not spare another glance at the pendant, no doubt magically enforced with runes for protection. It glistened, emerald and vibrant.

“Leave. _Now._ ”

The do-gooders stood around, unsure, but finally left dejectedly in a single file after Loki gave them a hard glare—Doctor Strange, Black Panther, Hawkeye, Black Widow, the Wasp, Thor and Iron Man (curse the two, Loki thought, as they hung back for too long, for no good reason other than one millennia or one minute of intimacy).

“Captain.”

He turned around while the others were outside, blue eyes wide and inquisitive.

“You may leave the flowers.”

The Captain placed it on the nightstand next to him, sending a disgustingly bright smile towards Loki before he had the brains to leave. Loki – card still on his lap - turned his head towards the flowers, eyes growing weary, and the last thing he saw before he fell into a deep green slumber was a blur of white and gold flowers. The last thing he thought to himself, bitterly: 

_Sentiment._

***

He awoke what felt like an eternity, submerged in darkness and green flames, to the stink of alcohol, a goatee, and a massive ego. (Not to mention a painful cough that sent pain jolting throughout his entire body, but at least his entire body wasn’t bandaged in a way that made him look like a mummy.)

"Mornin’ Sleeping Beauty! How's our favorite sociopath doing today?"

Loki scowled as disgustedly as he could manage at the lecherous mortal. He was sure it only managed to highlight how disgusting he must have looked, considering how he felt. Disgusting was good, if it meant keeping this useless sex-addict away from him.

"Leave, now,” he snarled as he felt his bed shifting slowly into sitting position (which was much more painful than Loki let Iron Man see). “Your presumptions are suffocating me.”

"Presumptions? Whatever do you mean?" Stark asked as he snaked an arm around Loki's waist. Loki wished he could throw him out the window for his insolence (and his whiskey-breath), but his arms were too weak to even lift up a cup of water. (Embarrassingly, Iron Man had to do that for him.) Instead, he gave the idiot a well-deserved but weak head-butt, which probably hurt him more than it did the thick-headed, booze-reeking mortal, but Loki was used to dealing with collateral damage. 

"Ow! What was that for? I brought chocolate."

"For _presuming_. Now get off of me. Now."

"Fine," he pouted, pulling away and popping a whole chocolate into his mouth, following it up with a large gulp of whiskey from his flask. "But at least eat some of my chocolate."

It was one thing to have Iron Man feeding him out of humiliation and obedience, but another thing entirely to submit to being hand fed like a child out of weakness. He warily eyed the glow emanating from underneath Stark’s shirt.

"I have no appetite for your half-assed chocolates."

Stark scoffed at “half-assed.” No doubt they were more expensive than a middle-class man’s entire month salary, or something equally ridiculous. They looked delicious, but the last thing Loki wanted (besides food) was to give into Stark’s game plan. 

"Chocolate’ll keep you awake. You're boring when you're Sleeping Beauty. Nope, nope, scratch that, Snow White. Because you’re pale. Really pale."

Loki (who moved Stark up his “Kill Painfully and Slowly” List by twenty spots) cut in, with a loud and painful cough to make it seem believable, "I wish to sleep now. Go away."

He didn’t stop coughing, which wasn’t part of the act; but, nevertheless, it had little effect on the narcissistic man-child.

"That's cool," he said, nonchalant, pulling out a Stark tablet. "Go ahead. Good night, princess."

Loki glared at him, but the intruder did not move. Stark gave a lazy grin. "What's up?"

"Why are you still here?"

"Working." To prove a point, his fingers dashed at the hologram projected by the tablet, poking at random schematics Loki did not understand (but would steal later, he reminded himself). Every time he pressed on something, it made the most irritating bleeping sound that rang through his ears.

"I didn't realize we were in Stark Tower, not that you even do work there," Loki hissed. To Stark's credit, the mortal craftsman did look like he had been working: hair in messy disarray, eyes worn and heavy from lack of sleep. The debatably handsome wrinkles on his face were more distinct than usual—Iron Man is mortal, after all, drinking and working his pathetic life away. But this place, as far as Loki was concerned, was not a personal workspace. "And stop that infernal noise!"

Stark lowered some sort of holographic bar, which Loki assumed to be the volume. "Hey, at least I'm not like Cap. He sketches you _while you sleep_. That's just creepy."

Loki scoffed, but took a mental note of it nonetheless. "At least I'm asleep. Unlike you, who insists on irritating me with your presence while I'm awake and forced to endure it."

"So I can irritate you like the others while you sleep? Good to know. Night night."

His eyes felt strained. The room was too bright to be real, air tepid. It could have been night, for all he knew, or morning, or late afternoon. But Loki continued glaring anyway, to get his point across, trying to hold back the stinging tears. He didn't smirk when he saw Stark fidgeting nervously in his seat, but had to summon all of his power to hold his coughing fit back. Luckily, he could sense Stark breaking. Stark must have felt Loki mentally tearing off that obnoxious goatee off of his chin.

"Okay, okay, I got it! Sheesh. Leaving! But if you think _I'm_ annoying, just check out the other guys. I rigged this tablet with voice-command, just say an Avenger's name and a time, or random, whatever the hell you want, and you got a gold mine of blackmail. Nothing from me, of course, and not because I deleted everything..."

Stark made a show of sauntering to the door, like the ass he always is, with his ugly goatee held up ridiculously high, but not as high as his ego (that would be impossible). Loki once thought, foolishly, that with his tech, money, resources, Stark would be useful. But all his talk, with little to show for, and the most infuriating narcissism, coupled with his world-renown publicity was more trouble than it was worth. 

He probably had enough lawyers and connections for the whole world to hunt down Loki and take his child away, if Loki were to have his child. 

That “if” will never happen.

He stopped before the door, hand at the knob. "Ever visit your—who was it, niece? You like the new place?"

Loki narrowed his eyes, but kept his glare upwards. The whiteness of the ceiling, though blinding, was a change of pace from the engulfing dream darkness he was used to. He wasn’t sure if it was a welcomed change.

"I've been busy."

The fool attempted to casually scratch his goatee, or beard, whatever it is.

“Great place to raise a kid or two, just sayin'.”

"Presumptions,” he sneered, but Stark simply laughed and left.

After a heavy sigh, Loki really did sleep, and he could not tell for how long; but, after a long hour or two of lazing in bed and savoring the momentary peace, he turned his head to the nightstand and said, "Doctor Strange... three days ago."

There was Doctor Strange, checking paperwork, replacing bloodied bandages, and adjusting magic threads. There was nothing out of the ordinary for a long while.

"Captain America. Random."

Captain America was just as Stark mentioned—sketching. Just staring and sketching. The Captain would just stop and stare. He would set his sketchbook down, and simply stare. Once, the soldier's hand reached out, so close to a cold cheek, but drew it back instantly. 

It was unnerving.

"Wasp. Random."

The Wasp was sketching as well. But instead of long, focused stares and intense observations, she made quick glances, and darted her eyes between his seemingly lifeless body to random photos and back to the sketchbook. Her "workspace" and sketchbook was cluttered with colors, scattered about like a child's playroom.

"Do the Avengers not have enough funding for separate work offices?!"

The holographic footage suddenly switched to a worn-down, shaking Dr. Pym.

 _”Alright Hank, get a hold of yourself.”_

The doctor breathed in and out heavily, bringing a syringe up to a vein in Loki’s right arm. Loki’s eyebrows shot up when, in the footage, something akin to a whimper left his mouth, causing the mad scientist to draw the syringe back instantly. He stopped, and stared at Loki for what almost seemed like forever. Loki paid no heed and slept on. The screen was small, but Loki could see himself trembling and hear the faint spillage of insensible words from his own lips.

But this bizarre bout of trembling stopped. Pym sighed heavily, brushing a stray hair away from the patient’s face, before returning the syringe to the vein. He stilled, frozen in time, and inhaled as he pushed his thumb onto the plunger—

In a sudden fit of anger, Goliath gripped the syringe with a trembling arm, and flung it hard across the room with such force that the syringe exploded and rained glass upon the white, sterile floor.

_”Goddammit!”_

The hero, or whatever he was, fell upon the plastic white chair next to Loki’s bed in defeat, face buried in his hands.

 _”It’s okay to feel sorry for you,”_ he told himself. _”I have to understand your side of the story. That’s the academic thing to do.”_

He inhaled deeply.

 _"When did it start? For you and Thor? I…"_ He looked down at Loki and laughed, as though he mocked himself for talking to a coma patient.

_"She was so young when I married her. Sometimes I think I pressured her into this. Sometimes, I think it’s the other way around.”_

Loki thought of the brunette girl and her colored pencils scattered about his bed, sketching carelessly. He almost thought of Amanda, but stopped himself.

_“But, even now, she looks so young and scared, and for some reason I tell myself that if I kiss her, if I touch her, everything will be fine, even if…even if she doesn’t want me to touch her, sometimes. We love each other, so it’s okay, everything will be okay.”_

He buried his face back into his hands again, but Loki can hear his words. _”That’s what Thor tells himself, right? When he hurts you.”_

When he lifted his head again, Loki could see, despite the small screen of the hologram, that his eyes are filled with guilt and regret and sadness. Loki has seen the same look in Thor’s eyes.

_”I hit her. I **hit** Jan. **Jan.** I didn't mean to, but... God, I just..." _

"Stop.”

The hologram froze.

Miraculously, Loki was able to reach out and grabbed the tablet, almost dropping it in the process, but managed to shakily bring it to his lap. He never felt any object weigh so much in his life but Mjolnir, and it was just a stupid, excessive, mortal device. Almost as thin as a piece of paper, and yet he couldn’t even snap it in half. The strain his pathetic attempt caused him to cough. He weakly wiped at the side of his mouth, and examined the dark red smear on his hand. How could Doom do this to him? No, this was Thor’s fault. It was always Thor’s fault. Or the Avengers. He took in a deep, quivering breath.

How could Loki do this to himself?

He sighed heavily, looking at the sterile white ceiling. He eyed the other side of the room, which had no trace of Goliath’s presence. This cell of his was clean, empty, and so blindingly white. This whole room could have been an illusion, a fake, for all he knew—this footage and uncharacteristic display of worry and care for the God of Mischief, the evil villain, could have all been a ploy, an attempt to trick the Trickster. They could have all been lying to the Liesmith. 

Loki pursed his lips, feeling apprehensive. This room was suffocating.

“…Banner. Hulk.”

Nothing happened. He frowned to himself.

"Spider-Man. Random."

_"Heeeey Loki! Me again! Haha, guess you can't hear me... Hm. Wonder what you guys dream about? Cthulhu? Dragons? Yesterday, Tony told me about this one South Park episode…"_

Parker went rambling on, like an excited child coming home from a field trip. He had his blue and red suit on, but his mask off, and he was so earnest and awkward that Loki knew this could not have been a ploy, at least on Spider-Man’s part. Nevertheless, Loki felt weary, and kept his guard up.

_"What's your secret? I mean, centuries of marriages and kids... you do stay married, right? Not saying that there's anything wrong with not being married and having kids, you're probably a kickass mo—DAD. I meant dad. Father. Er. Well. Must be tough, huh? You should see Power Man's baby. Cute kid, mixed-race. Um, not that you have to be mixed to be cute! I bet your kids are plenty cute! But, uh, yeah, cute kid, Mary Jane's all over her most of the time..."_

Loki sighed, and leaned further into his pillow. He closed his weary eyes to hide them from the unnaturally bright light of the room, faintly reminded of the incessant yelping, barking, howling of one of his first sons.

_“She still thinks about it. She tries to be funny, says she just wants 'this' baby, but I can tell. She thinks about... well, the kid we would have had if I hadn't…”_

The centuries-old god’s mind was filled with pained, mournful howling.

_“No one talks about it, no one really knows what I… what I did, but I still think about it, Jesus, there’s no way I can forget how I hurt… how I **killed** …”_

Spider-Man (who is just a _boy_ ) choked, forcing a sob down his throat; Loki's eyes fluttered open as he spat, "Random."

Loki half-woke with a violent cough, hoarse and burning until bile began rushing through his body, forcing its way out of his throat. He didn’t remember this at all. Mortal women—nurses—descended upon him after an agonizing minute, a minute of drowning in his own blood and vomit. The nurses cleaned him up quickly and went on their way. Loki wondered why he hasn’t seen them yet.

In the footage, he blacked out shortly after, only to begin thrashing in his sleep. (He knew he was dreaming, but he never realized what these horrible, haunting dreams did to him. It made him look weak, pathetic. He had to find a way to stop that.) Strangely enough, the Black Widow rushed in to Loki’s bed. She pushed him to his side, had him facing the sunny, too-real-to-be-real window. She brought a small hand to his back and began rubbing softly and slowly, soothing in with a Russian melody. He almost didn’t notice the archer trail in behind her.

 _“What do you think he was dreaming about?”_ Hawkeye asked.

_“His past, his future, now. Nightmares.”_

The holographic Black Widow continued her faint humming. 

Loki shut his eyes, fighting to block out the bright lights of the room. He could have sworn he dreamt of the very same lullaby.

 _“How many do you think he’s lost?”_ she asked suddenly.

_“Don’t…”_

Loki warily opened his eyes, studying the purple and black blurs.

 _“I’m just,”_ she continued, and hesitated, _”…curious.”_

Barton paused cautiously before answering. _”A lot, maybe. Hell if I know.”_

It wasn’t the most careful answer.

 _“I’ve only lost one, and… I guess I can see why he’s so fucked up,”_ The Black Widow said to herself.

_“There’s nothing wrong with you. Don’t do this to yourself.”_

_“I can’t have anymore.”_

She tried to hum the lullaby again, but even Loki found himself faltering in the melody already. Then she forced out a laugh.

_”When I was buzzed – no, drunk – I stupidly thought, maybe I could get him pregnant? Wouldn’t it be so **fucking** hilarious? I have to impregnate a male to have my own baby.”_

Hawkeye reached out for her, but she stopped him with her cutting words. Her words were always cutting.

 _”But even if I could,”_ she barely breathed, _“I’m not brave enough to try.”_

This is the most Loki has ever heard Widow speak—the most words and the most emotions she’s ever let out of her.

_“You’ve got so much, done so much, you don’t owe SHIELD or the Avengers or whoever shit. With all that fucking money you’re saving, we can adop—”_

She spun around, sharp and cutting as always. _“There’s no we, Barton.”_

Slowly, she turned back to Loki. _“I’m not brave enough.”_

_“Tasha…”_

The Black Widow stumbled back into her artic lullaby, but she’s nearly sobbing now, in her own way. Controlled. Buried in deep. Her cries only find its way out through her fists, feet, or firepower. Loki closed his eyes and listened to her humming, holding the tablet close to him, hoping that, maybe, he wouldn’t dream if he kept the lullaby in his mind. But the shuffling of Hawkeye’s feet ruined it, as the fool of an archer moved to the other side of Loki’s almost-dead body.

_"Hey Tasha, check it out. Heh heh."_

_"Stop that, dumbass. Heh..."_ She rubbed at her eyes, as though there might have been tears there.

 _"You're the dumbass, and a hypocrite, I see you laughing there!"_ He almost sounded desperate. How far he went, for a woman who didn’t love him.

_"What're you guys up to—oh my God."_

_"Really, Barton?"_ The Captain gave the archer a stern look. (Stark, on the other hand, is laughing immaturely.) _"Penises?"_

 _"Why did you assume it's me? It's the Widow!"_ Hawkeye tossed the marker to the Black Widow.

 _"Guilty as charged,"_ she replied sarcastically, as she tossed it over to Iron Man.

 _"Hey, lemme draw something funny that's not a... uh, thing,"_ the small fairy-sized superhero whined, attempting to take the marker – which was bigger than her, not that it mattered with her powers – away from Stark, who swatted at her in response. _”Come on!”_

 _"Hey,"_ the Peter said, _"that would totally be funny on other people, but… this is pretty insensitive, considering it's Loki."_

 _"Which… basically makes it okay."_ Stark was marking his face even further, earning a grade-A scowl from Loki, wishing he could grab the cursed tablet and throw it out the possibly fake window. _“Pretty sure he’d be okay with a real big one shoved right in hi—”_

_” **Tony!** ”_

_”Help clean it off,"_ Romanoff said as she began wiping away the childishly drawn cock next to his mouth (which was also ejaculating, thanks to the disgusting Iron Man).

Hawkeye gaped at her. _"What! You were laughing at it a moment ago."_

 _"I believe, what Spider-Man is trying to allude to,"_ the Black Panther explained, _"is the nature of Thor's... questionable... solution, for our Loki problem."_

 _"It's not just—"_ Perhaps for Loki’s sake, Spider-Man stopped himself. 

Not that Loki, God of Mischief, cared. It was nothing to him, just moments in his too-long past. He was not weak enough to let a childish prank uproot buried traumas and shake him into some sad, pathetic state. He was not a victim that needed saving from a handful of idiotic, tiny-minded, juvenile heroes who were only capable of hurting their loved ones and saving themselves. These “heroes” were mere mortals, all misunderstood by Midgard to be some group of selfless, perfect saviors, when they were only broken, hopeless, horrible people. Loki did not need salvation from these self-entitled heroes, who were all so incredibly stupid enough to just to stand there and give him a look of _pity_.

He's had enough of pity.

"Thor,” he spat out, “Random.”

Loki didn’t look at first, turning his head away from the silent, unmoving image of his boulder of a stepbrother. The clawing feeling inside of him made it unbearable, sudden and abrupt like a thunderous storm in New Mexico. It was a hot hatred, threatening to burn out from his chest and set the whole nine realms on fire. He’s only been conscious for a few days total, a week maybe, but he can feel he has been dormant and docile in this cell for long, too long, immobile and vulnerable and nothing that befits the God of Mischief. He began inhaling deeply to quell his anger (but kept it alive inside of him for a more opportune day).

Thor sat there in the hologram, sulking like a fool. Staring, long and deep, not so unlike the Captain, but worse. Thor stared while holding his hand, running fingers through his too-long hair, even re-bandaging his limbs (or stumps, as he had _no legs_ in his footage). It was all unnerving, so unnerving. Loki suddenly noticed himself shaking, and began taking deep breaths again to calm himself, seething like a volcano. There was nothing he could do but bide his time. Later, he will severe the hands that dared touch him, and the head that thought so foolishly enough to dare touch him. He will gouge out the eyes that dared to look upon him with regret and affection, cut out the heart that—

 _"When you wake, brother,"_ Thor said abruptly with resolve, _"I will show you how much I love you."_

He will bide his time, for now.

***

He slept again. By the time he woke, he found he could sit up just a little without an excruciating pain shooting through his backbone, but his were legs spastic at best. At the very least, he finally had enough strength to snap the accursed tablet in half, and tried not to let the Avengers’ words haunt him.

There was no reason to get up—in fact, it was better for him to sleep, in his opinion, so he wouldn't have to deal with the infuriating do-gooders, who, whenever they weren't out doing whatever it is they do, hung on his every word and coddled him as though he were some sort of cripple. (Never mind the fact that he was a cripple at the moment.) Or, even worse, they treated him as though he were their pet—their pathetic, misunderstood villain, on the verge of salvation and redemption through their selfless protection.

"Hey, what do you think of this design?" the young and especially insufferable Wasp asked, shoving an illustration in his face. She's insufferable because for no logical reason whatsoever she's earnest and naive and the most willing to simply be herself with him, in the same way a child who didn't know any better would. "I was really, really inspired by your armor. I'm making a collection with a sort of 'villain-ish vibe,' you know? It's almost got a little bit of everybody, except, well, you know, that unicorn guy. Namor, too, for obvious reasons... wait, actually...!"

She began sketching furiously on her large drawing pad, leaving "his" design on his lap. He fumbled with it with long, shaking fingers.

"Where is your..." he coughed, "Ant-Man?"

"Science," she said dismissively. Pym’s words echoed through his mind, scraping against his mental barriers as he stared at the illustration. "Haven't seen him for a while." 

( _“I **hit** Jan.”_ )

Loki swallowed dry, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He pushed away the thoughts and voices back and continued staring at the design. He won't admit it, but he's impressed, and appreciated the subtle hints of green. He wondered when she'll create a pair of those boots (so he can steal them). They didn’t look like the kind to be mass-manufactured and sold in department stores, with the Art Nouveau intricacies of silver steel. Perhaps it's time to make a change to his usual villainous attire, he thought to himself as he placed the design next to Spider-Man’s card on the nightstand.

He scowled when he found her smiling at him with a toothy smile, gushing, "You like the boots, don't you? I knew you would! They're my favorite part, too."

"I was simply surprised, considering some of those disasters you call your Wasp costumes," Loki said as princely as possible, but she only pouted in response.

"Ew, don't remind me. And most of them were great. Fashion's always changing, so will I," was her light-hearted answer. "You can model for me, if you want. Sooo many agencies would kill for your cheekbones. Oh, man, if you strutted in as the finale! That would blow everyone's mind! An actual, _fabulous_ super-villain!"

Loki’s brow twitched at the word “fabulous,” but his ego couldn’t stop him from smirking at her compliments.

"If I recall, Psylocke—"

"Great model, but not a super villain," she chirped, adding some smaller details before turning over to a new page.

Loki thanked the gods for the moments of silence, marred only by the sound of sketching, which he actually enjoyed. He closed his eyes, hoping to will himself to sleep, so that he might be lucky enough to wake up when she's gone. But in the darkness of his eyes he can remember one of the daughters he once had, as earnest and naive as Janet van Dyne, who liked to draw as he read. Soon the darkness of slumber overtook him, and his image of a young Wasp morphed into another girl, with darker hair and darker skin and darker eyes, and oh, so much green—green, green that engulfed him and his daughter, smashed every vein in his body, crushed his very essence. 

So much green, it haunted and frightened him.

He wakened agape, and found the Wasp still in her chair, dozing off. Her hands were smeared with dark, blood red, contrasting the mundane whiteness of the room and the colorful rainbow of pencils spilled on the floor. He snorted when he noticed the rough design on the sketchpad seemed to resemble Mephisto, in a way, before it was wisely scribbled over in black, charcoal frustration (it seemed her designs were either hit or miss, and this was very much a miss). But on his bed he noticed green pencils, scattered harmlessly on his right side. The sight made him sweat, cold.

"Wha... huh? Oh, you're awake..." She rubbed at her eyes like a child. "Did'ya have a nice nap?"

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, meaning to sound menacing, but only came off as coarse and tired. 

"Dunno... It beats working at home," she mumbled. Her eyes were downcast, as though trying to hide from him. "I mean, villains are my inspiration for this collection, and you're a villain, so..."

Her voice trailed on into silence as she gingerly plucked the green pencils off of his bed, eyes strained and focused on solely the pencils.

"Before, you mentioned the Sub-Mariner. I hardly consider him a super-villain."

"Are you kidding? Wasn't he and Doom and—"

"Nothing if not a short-term alliance."

She got to the floor, slowly picking up her pencils, shakily dropping one or two in haste.

"Well... I don't know. The way he keeps coming onto Sue like that... She's happily married, with kids!" the girl (in his eyes, she's barely a woman) ranted, tossing her pencils and sketchbook carelessly in her bag.

Loki snorted in an un-princely manner. "As if anyone can be happily married to Richards."

"Yeah, I get it, the guy's an asshole. But their marriage seems so solid."

"What are you basing all of this off on?"

She threw the bag over her shoulders, standing there awkwardly, unsurely, as though she could not decide whether to stay and answer him reasonably or run away, out the door, or fly away out into the false, deathly brightness through the open window. "N-nothing. It just... seems perfect. At least..."

He frowned when she headed for the door, unsatisfied and baffled by the blatant display of emotion and openness into her life, as she began to shrink, still with a firm grip on the too-large bag. Loki felt mostly baffled by some strange feeling of concern in him when he could no longer see her, only the un-fashionable bag marked with colors, creativity, magic, years of hard work. The bag began to move towards the door, at such a fast pace it startled him.

"Sometimes, your loved ones are better without you," he said, words pulled out from the hidden corners of the very back of his mind, a strange set of words that sent off an unidentifiable set of emotions through him like clockwork.

The bag stopped with the same suddenness of its attempted departure.

"But it mustn't mean you are nothing to them."

The bag moved towards the door again, cautiously. It's at the corner of Loki's eye, and almost made it to the door, until he sighed, deeply and resigned. "Come here, child."

When she revealed herself from underneath the bag, he could still barely make out her form. Just a small, small speck in an engulfing white room, and the sight of her and her pathetic turmoil reminded himself of so much it was almost infuriating. Some people are better off without you—but to be nothing, or _something_ , something of hatred, regret, sorrow? Nothing or something, which was better? The choice was too clear centuries ago, clear even today.

She was small and insignificant, like a child, as she curled up in the hollow trench created by his collarbone. He thought of all of his children he was able to hold, and the ones he wasn’t.

"You told me I was being cruel."

"Yes," Loki sighed. "I did."

Her voice was so small.

"What am I doing wrong?" 

Too distraught, she didn't notice the ever-growing, devilish smirk on his face. "You’re still by his side."

Even her tears were so small, he barely felt them, how insignificant they were. 

He slept soundly this time, with no visions to haunt him.

***

Admittedly, he enjoyed the Captain's visits the most, partially because they could reminisce of the past together—stickball, movies and music, and waiting for loved ones during the war. Sometimes, the artist would sketch and leave Loki to read in peace. Other times, they would talk about nothing in particular. It was both a blessing and a curse for the golden man to visit without any of the other infuriating do-gooders.

" _...if you want the things you love..._ "

"Bart was really something, huh?" the Man out of Time asked. They held off their inevitable conversation about Bart, the funeral, and their short connection during the past. They never spoke of it until Stark installed a music system into the room. It brought Loki so many memories, many he did not want to think of again.

" _...so when you hear it thunder..._ "

"I think he could have played with the big bands."

Loki huffed. "Of course. His... other father... used to be musically inclined, long ago. I changed that, of course."

He said the last part to himself, quietly; but Loki knows the man is a Super Soldier, with super hearing, so he was sure to say it proudly, with a smirk. 

"... _there'll be pennies from heaven for you and me..._ "

The man turned his eyes to Loki, who was determined to focus his eyes on the ceiling above him, rather than the deep, indescribable blue eyes that drew him in against his will. "After I saw you, after the funeral... I can't believe I never noticed it before. It was like an empty slot just filled up."

Loki simply stared at the ceiling, sinking in the deep, soothing voice that slowly began to fade away.

"You and Bart used to feed me all the time," the man laughed a deep laugh. Once he was a mere boy on the brink of adulthood, so weak and insignificant that even Loki, God of Mischief, had felt misplaced pity for; now, he was sculpted like a god, an Asgardian. Loki could see the muscles underneath his casual plaid button-up. "Too much, actually."

Loki kept his eyes fixed on the blinding whiteness of the ceiling, determined not to look at the man (the scrawny young man on the footsteps of his old Brooklyn apartment), determined not to see the emotion that seeped from his nostalgic words.

"I used to sketch you," he said, low and intimate, like a confession. "A lot. I still do, but I never really realized who it was 'til now. Don't know why. Just did."

" _Oh! Will you never let me be..._ " 

"When I sat on those steps and listened to Bart playing his sax, I always looked for you, through the window, or waited for you to come out the door. Not just for your apple pies.”

" _A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces_..."

"I don't know why, actually," he said with a soft voice that sounded much closer than before. Loki didn't want to look to see if he was leaning in. "All the other guys pegged you for a stiff shirt, but I—"

"Change the song," Loki interrupted, losing his desire to listen. "I don't care for Ella Fitzgerald and her... whatever you would call it."

"Y-yeah, sure thing."

Loki was grateful Rogers wasn’t familiar enough with Ella Fitzgerald (being in ice and all) to know she didn’t scat in this song. He fumbled with the iPod – connected to a surround sound system thanks to Tony Stark and his disgusting ulterior motives – until he somehow managed to snap it in two. The two looked at each other, blue softening at the sight of green.

They laughed, and began once again reminiscing about record players the super soldier couldn’t afford (back in the day), and fell once again into easy conversation.

But, in the pit of Loki's stomach, an uneasy feeling grew.

***

The Black Panther's visits are rare, even rarer still for them to speak one-on-one together. The latter only happened once, while the Black Widow and Hawkeye went to the "hospital's" cafeteria (though it was blatantly clear that he was in some SHIELD building, locked and imprisoned; the sky outside the window could be artificial for all he knew). But the Wakandan chief provided a sense of calm maturity that starkly contrasted the hectic irritation that was _the Avengers_.

"If you were to fight your own wife, what would you do?"

"The real question: why would I fight her?"

"Why does it matter?" 

"If it's simply a dispute, I would never try to physically harm her."

He stopped, and thought. That’s what Loki appreciated (the term is used loosely, particularly considering it relative to the other Avengers) about the stern, diplomatic ruler. He placed actual thought into his words, rather than running his mouth like most of the others. 

They are both kings in their own rights, and the Black Panther did not forget that. 

"But if we, if ever, were to oppose each other in ideals and what we thought would be best for the good of Wakanda and the world, I would give it my all. She will not hesitate to defeat – to _kill_ – me. She's capable of both, no doubt, but I would put my whole heart into our battle as I do into our love."

He stopped and observed at the fallen god, as if to mentally deconstruct the prince’s entire being. Loki could not help but wonder and gaze upon the chief’s skin, the darkest thing in his ever-blindingly white room. (Loki didn’t admit it, but the sight was soothing to his eyes.)

"Is that not why you’re always so intent on killing Thor? Because of love?" 

The Avengers enjoyed prodding Loki with questions about his relationship with Thor. Sometimes they would give Thor the benefit of the doubt, poke and prod at Loki to see if he still had affection for his brother, blaming any of his misdeeds on jealousy or misunderstandings; or, they would assume the worse of their own comrade (it tended to be the women and younger ones), and attempt to pry out any sadness or information from him that would suggest that, maybe, Loki was just a poor, broken, misunderstood soul attempting to seek justice, acting out due to years of being hurt by someone he trusted. Such pathetic, optimistic thinking disgusted Loki. 

But he only laughed at the Chief, because he knew the regal and intelligent man was going to say such a thing, make such an obvious analogy—because no matter how intelligent or powerful a man may be, no matter how highly (again, the term is used loosely) he regards a man, they are all predictable to Loki. Whether it be Odin, Thor, Doom, Panther...

"And yet I have never killed him," he replied with a smirk. "I must not be putting my whole heart into it. Remind me to try harder next time."

***

He dreamed of a tall brunette who fought like a warrior and commanded like a ruler. She was strong and powerful and persuasive. The overpowering, painful greenness of his dreams no longer caused him pain. She controlled it, almost. He had no proof, but, in the depth of his heart, he knew. He knew.

This was his Amanda.

"Come home, Brother.”

Loki jerked his hand away from Thor’s, holding it close to him as though scalded. But Thor was not discouraged; he frowned and reached for both of Loki’s hands, clasped them strongly in his. The Trickster was still too weak to pull them out of Thor’s grip, and only the bright whiteness told Loki that this was not his reoccurring dream, nightmare, memory.

“If you seek a child, I will give you one."

"I don't want _your_ child," Loki hissed.

Their eyes met, Thor as honest and determined as always, Loki with his mask. But Loki felt his mask cracking, slowly. He had to will himself not to break away from Thor’s startling blue eyes, but Thor brought a large, rough hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at Loki’s jaw and hollowed cheekbones—the same way Thor has been caressing Loki’s face throughout their lives. "Loki…”

Loki jerked his head away, revolted by this affection. “Leave, now!”

Those blue eyes were wet, stirring with a hot anger. The calloused hand gripped tightly onto Loki’s hair, bringing the two together too closely.

“You have told me throughout our lives that you love me. Do not take it back now!"

Thor tried to kiss him, but Loki turned away again, feeling the messy kiss branding his cheek.

"Surprise, surprise, Almighty Thor. There is a reason they call me the Liesmith." 

He breathed in and out steadily, or at least tried to, even as the beat of his heart quickened. Thor, on the other hand, was seething with so many emotions it overwhelmed Loki. Unpredictably is what frightened Loki the most, but Loki knew what Thor was going to do to him now, even if all of these uncharacteristic emotions were sweltering inside of his brother with such scalding hatred and love, threatening to boil over. Thor was predictable. 

But he was also unstoppable.

( _"Is that not why you’re always so intent on killing Thor? Because of love?”_ )

"I never loved you," Loki lied. He could see the emotions in Thor beginning boil over.

( _”Remind me to try harder next time.”_ )

"I hate you, Odinson. I hate you with every thread of flesh and magic within me. I hate you with the heat of the burning flames of Muspelheim. I swear upon every single child, monster or man, I have begotten, that I hate you." 

All of the anger, regret, love spewed out of Thor. Predictable.

"And I will _never_ love you."

"Then you have proven yourself a whore," Thor growled, pushing Loki against the wall supporting the bed with such a force that only by miracle did not break the Trickster's skull enough to kill him. A trail of blood made its way down the back of Loki's head, down his neck, but the God of Thunder paid no heed. "You have lain with me many times without love. It is clear you need none now."

With such force that Loki might have reveled in centuries, millennia ago, Thor slammed Loki back into the bed. Loki screamed and kicked as the bed collapsed beneath him, metal bars giving away to the cold white floor. Thor trapped him with his broad body, holding him close against the wall, before he forced his lips upon the Liesmith’s. 

Loki was defiant, but Thor kept a thumb in between the Liesmith’s lips as he forced his tongue inside. The scratching of Thor’s beard burned his face. Loki tried so hard not to think of the way the God of Thunder’s tongue was invading him, tried not to think of the times when the god forced himself upon Loki without so much as a kiss, even a violent, penetrating kiss like this.

( _Sometimes, your loved ones are better without you._ )

“Why must you do this to me, Loki?” Thor panted heavily against Loki’s lips. “I love you, yet all you do is scorn me. Resent me. Hurt me.”

Thor easily tore away the paper-thin hospital gown off of Loki as he tossed Loki onto the broken bed. He felt cold, freezing while trapped underneath the heat of his regally dressed, armored golden brother. Even with a thin layer of bandages wrapped about his ribs, he was naked and exposed under the heavy gaze of Thor’s blue eyes. The same rough, calloused hand that affectionately caressed him trailed down his body, stopping at the swell of Loki’s lower hip, dipping dangerously close between his cheeks.

Loki gritted his teeth in a semblance of calm, chest heaving up and down. “Thor, if you do this, I will—!”

“Loki.”

Their eyes met again. This time, Loki felt his mask shatter, and his heart stop.

Thor pushed a thick finger through his entrance, dry. 

A soundless cry escaped Loki as Thor mercilessly thrust two fingers in and out all the way to the knuckle. Thor devoured the wordless cry with an open, biting kiss.

“I’m preparing you,” he had three fingers, thrusting and stretching too roughly for Loki to bear, “so you can enjoy this, _argr_.” 

“Stop, you, you…” he nearly cried, shaking but trying his hardest to holding onto that last string of sanity and composure, “…coward, _craven!_ Stop this!”

Loki tried to move, to kick and to squirm, but it only served for Thor’s thick fingers to unforgivingly thrust in deeper.

“Why must you always, always fight back?”

“I’ll burn you, skin you, **kill you!** ” 

The violating fingers left him suddenly, instead gripping both of Loki’s thin wrists and pinning them down with Mjolnir above him with ease. Loki looked with wide eyes at the beast above him, golden hair affray and eyes, those darkening and frightening blue eyes, pierced onto his own. Thor’s eyebrows were furrowed, wrinkles chiseled onto his face in a fearsome, angry expression.

“How can you do this with Doom, _Doom_ , of all people?”

Loki thrashed, screaming threats and curses as Thor kneeled closer in between his legs. Thor’s manhood, huge and erect, brushed against his sore entrance, sending Loki into a frantic state of panic, using every ounce of power he had left to try to rid himself of Thor and Mjolnir. It was useless. In a horrible display of emotion, Thor cradled his face and softly kissed his forehead.

“You do not need Doom, Loki. I can give you everything.”

“No, Thor, _don’t_ —”

“W-we will have our own children,” Thor rambled breathily between forced kisses, gripping and spreading Loki’s legs open. “My children. Not Doom’s, nor Balder’s.”

“ **Never.** ”

Thor snarled and – without warning – lanced his cock into Loki until he was fully sheathed. 

“Gods, Loki,” Loki managed to hear over his own cries, over the pain of being forced open, “You are so tight.” 

“I’ll kill you,” was Loki’s broken, breathless reply. He shut his eyes hard, runes and spells and everything in his mind crumbling at the sudden repeated penetration. He tried to block out the sight and sound of Thor groaning above him, block out the feeling of Thor spearing into him deeply and mercilessly. The neglected metal bars rattled and the broken bed shook under them, banging against the wall as Thor grew even more forceful. “I… I swear by the Norns, I’ll…”

“Ssshhh. You need not lie to yourself anymore,” Thor panted desperately. “I’ve got you.”

Loki’s attempts at wrestling away, even with Thor’s weight and Mjolnir’s immobility, grew weaker and weaker as Thor kept rutting into him. His eyes watered against his will, and, oh, how he wished his tears were acid, so he could feel the painful burn of acid instead of the pain of being brutally violated and fucked in half by Thor. He wished his ears were filled with blood or bugs or anything, so he could not hear the broken bed ramming against the wall or the harsh slap of skin against skin with every agonizing thrust. He wished he could sew his own lips together, so he could stop himself from sobbing.

“Stop, stop, stop—” Loki’s vision darkened, sight blurred. His body felt numb. 

It wasn’t long before the only thing he felt was the warm breath of Thor whispering, cursing, “I love you, I love you,” over and over again into his ear, in beat with the war song his heart was heavily drumming in his chest. 

He was cold and empty, staring with glossy eyes at the broken white floor. Though his vision was blurred by tears, he could make out the dead mayweed, Peter’s drawing, even Jan’s design tossed about the debris and metal railings from the broken bed, but it did nothing to help or sooth him. He cursed their and Thor’s sentimentality. He cursed the armored, large arms that scooped at his waist, drawing him in closer and fucking into his naked, weak body harder. Loki has been tortured and beaten throughout his life, but being torn in two by Thor – under the guise of _love_ – still hurt, always hurt, no matter how many times Loki endured it. The only thing for him to do was for him to give in. Thor was too lost in his love to notice Loki becoming still underneath him, eyes squeezed tight, shutting the world off around him.

 _This is nothing_ , Loki told himself, ignoring the way his heart violently pounded against his chest, threatening to tear through. _This means nothing. It’s just bodies, fucking, it’s just fucking, it means nothing._

He could never grow accustomed to the salty, humiliating taste of tears running down his face.

“I love you,” Thor said again desperately into the crook Loki’s neck, never faltering the thrusts of his hips.

( _“That’s what Thor tells himself, right?”_ )

It hurt, it hurt so much, and it went on forever. Loki didn’t want to give Thor the satisfaction of letting him know how much it hurt, but he could not stop himself from sobbing, crying. Loki cursed, threatened Thor, begged him to stop, but Thor only said again, tearfully, “I love you,” and continued his merciless fucking.

“ _ **Thor!**_ ”

And then, it all stopped so suddenly. Thor’s scorching warmth left him alone, naked on the broken bed. He was cold, shaken, empty; he didn’t feel gratefulness or relief, even when the sound of Thor lacing himself up again pierced his ears.

He turned his head, and could only make out a blurry figure of red, white, and blue.

“Captain.” Thor’s deep, chilling voice shook the room. “My brother and I are busy.”

Mjolnir was lifted from his hands, but he could not find any strength in him lift to sit up, nor the decency to cover himself. It’s just bodies fucking, he told himself. It means nothing.

“Thor, we discussed this already,” Loki thought the Captain said, but his hearing was failing him. Everything was fading. The unreal whiteness of the room didn’t seem as bright anymore. “What you’re doing is wrong. Stand. Down.”

“No. He is my responsibility. He is _mine!_ ”

Loki turned to his side, staring at the gifts carelessly tossed amongst the rubble.

“He doesn’t belong to anyone, Thor!”

He could hear the sounds of stomps, like a soldier’s march.

“If you don’t stop this… _this_ , I’m going to have to force you to.”

A hearty laugh caused Peter’s crumbled card to shake ever so slightly. A metal bar began to slowly roll away. 

“My friend, you would die trying.”

Loki wanted to listen, wanted to get up, wanted to _kill them all_ , but the sounds of their voices and their missed strikes, the shaking of the room, all began to fade, even as he fell off the bed, rattling the broken metal bars from the bed. His skin prickled at the sensation of the cold, marble floor against his nakedness. 

The false window – which turned out to be much like Stark’s tablet – shattered, sparks and flames flying suddenly, along with the walls cracking and rupturing all over; it was almost as though the entire world shook when Thor’s hammer struck the Captain’s shield. Despite his heavily, weary eyelids and the blood now running down his face and body, he could see his wretched brother’s feet, and just the sight of him made Loki retch, unable to watch the two heroes, the two titans, the two _gods_ toss each other around in an ungraceful, undignified and primal brawl.

“You know nothing,” one of them growled. “Stay out of this!”

“I won’t let you hurt him anymore!”

Were it any other day, the Trickster would have lounged and laughed at the two pathetic fools, stupidly scuffling as though they were Neanderthals fighting over a piece of meat, but his legs were shaking painfully, and he felt so off-balance. He did laugh though, after he vomited to the side, all over the Captain’s useless, dead flowers. He laughed, continued laughing, because the other two paid him no mind as they mindlessly fought one another (though he thought he heard the Captain call out his name, but he wasn’t sure).

The door was so far, even further as his muscles and skin nearly tore away from his body as he forced himself to crawl, unable to stand, face flushed with exertion and humiliation. The room rumbled and spun, and the walls almost gave way by the time Loki reached the door—shielding himself from the debris falling from the no longer perfectly white ceiling, he managed to pull himself up to his feet despite the excruciating pain as he clung to the door frame that shook along with the building. Debris and glass scarred his skin, and he stared at the shaking room, marred with his own blood (and maybe, he hoped, some of Thor's and Captain America's).

Looking back, he saw a violent clash of red, white, and blue against red and gold through a gaping, broken hole in the wall, where the “window” used to be, in a room full of what might have been abandoned computers and desks. But Loki, gripping onto the door frame for dear life, turned around and willed himself through his hazy disorientation and out of the battle, out of the door and into a grey hallway. 

It was not but a few aching steps before he hit the cold hard floor. He tried so hard to keep his eyes open, to keep moving forward, but the grey, dream-like darkness was a welcoming sight compared to the brightness of his cell; the darkness chased away the flashes of Thor above him, sweating and thrusting. The ringing in his ear, blocking out all other sounds, was comforting, compared to the sound of his metal bed ramming against the wall, the harsh sound of skin slapping against skin, the sound of Thor groaning, telling him over and over again, “I love you.”

He felt his eyes close, just for the slightest second, minute maybe, until he heard someone’s footstep behind him. 

 

His vision cleared, revealing Captain America standing over him—beaten, battered, _beautiful_. Rogers had his blinding shield in one hand and Mjolnir firm in the other, both lathered in blood. The image was so powerful, breathtaking, but Loki could not for the life of him remember what was happening, nor had he any breath to spare. He only knew that he felt a piercing pain in his chest.

A hand was steadying him. “Loki…”

“I must find my daughter,” he mumbled, the words barely able to pass his lips.

“But—”

“Hel, I… No, Amanda.” 

He felt a telltale trail of blood running down his legs. 

“I must...”

He collapsed suddenly and fell into strong arms. The last image Loki saw was of a golden man above him, a man with golden hair and blue, so blue, eyes—so much like the ones that haunted his nightmares and overwhelmed his dreams.

***

There was that lullaby again.

“It’s scary how good you are at this,” a male voice said.

“It’s part of the job requirement,” was the reply. 

The voices were fuzzy. He couldn’t tell who said what or what was said, but he could hear a lullaby in the blackness. The language he couldn’t recognize, but it was a lullaby nonetheless. 

Oh, that’s right, he was singing the lullaby. He was in Latveria, somewhere, high in the mountains and hidden within its mists. Loki was safe from Doom, safe from Thor. But when he looked down at the bundle in his arms, he saw a broken babe, and he cried.

“ ** _Amanda!_** ”

Loki jolted up from bed, panting heavily, sweat pouring down his body.

The two mortals stared at him. Fiery red, dusty blonde; black, purple. And white. His new cell was entirely white, again. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and hissed at the brightness; when his eyes adjusted, he saw Iron Man and Captain America at the door; Captain America was standing tall with his arms crossed like a protector.

Thor would do the same whenever Loki was sick or injured.

Stark cleared his throat, but no one said anything for a long time, even as Loki edged away to the other side of the bed, as far away as he could get from the infuriating, nosy, _pitiful_ Avengers. He turned away from them, and saw his older, worn-down gifts as well as newer ones adorning the nightstand. His heart quickened suddenly, pounding against his chest. The beeps of the machine next to him followed suit, the sound of its rapid beeps unbearable.

“Loki, it’s just us,” the Widow calmly told Loki, as the three swarmed in closer, caging him. “Loki!”

The floor was as cold and hard as ever when he pushed himself off the bed and frantically backed himself into the corner. He shakily chanted every spell he could think of to distract himself from the faint pain of sitting after what Thor did to him—an instant, familiar reminder of what Thor did to him. He even tried making some up, hoping that, maybe if he glared hard enough, they would all burst into flames, or fall to pieces, or anything, anything that would leave him alone, these heretics and broken good-doers. 

“Shouldn’t we get—”

“No,” the Captain ordered. “It’s okay.”

Loki didn’t dare break eye contact with Captain America, no matter how much he wanted to turn away from those blue eyes. He glowered, inhaling to still himself, nearly melting into the wall to back away from the man’s warm touch—but with ease Captain America took Loki in his arms, despite the silent thrashing and kicking.

“Cap, maybe that’s not…”

“It’s okay, Loki,” the Captain said to Loki quietly as he laid him back down on the bed. He whispered softly, “I’ve got you.” 

Loki froze, staring at the golden haired, blue-eyed warrior.

“Thor’s not here,” Stark might have said, under the ringing in Loki's ears. He pulled up a chair next to Captain America, while the two assassins sat at the opposite side, as though to make sure the Trickster had nowhere to run.

After a second of calculation, he knew it was too late. Each of them, even Black Panther, who entered in with paperwork, _pitied_ him from their high horses, as though he deserved their pity, as if Loki, God of Mischief, was some poor, misunderstood creature trying to fight his way through life. He inhaled deeply, trying to chill the boiling blood coursing through his veins and his drumming heart.

He relaxed into the bed, acting as though relieved at this news, though his heart continued to pain him even as the machine’s infernal beeping slowed gradually. 

“Thor does not frighten me.” 

“We know,” the Black Widow said as she awkwardly laid her hand over his, but he pulled it away immediately.

The Liesmith did not believe her for a second. He was disappointed in her, most of all, to be blinded by pity so easily.

He tilted his head back, accentuating a nervous swallow, watching Captain America’s eyes trail his neck. He glared at them.

“Once, I was raped by a horse,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Thor is no horse. Thor is nothing.”

He wanted to revel in their shocked, tensed faces, but he felt no victory from this. He felt empty. 

"I barely even felt it! Almighty Thor, they call him... what he wields is no hammer!"

Loki threw his head back and laughed, maybe a little too hard. Without taking his eyes away from the blinding white ceiling, he asked, “Where is he?”

For a long while, no one breathed a word.

“Yesterday, he was with Coulson,” Hawkeye hesitated. “Coulson debriefed him and… retaught… him. About our culture. What’s right and… wrong.”

He looked at the Widow, who didn't take her eyes off the patient.

Black Panther said, “You don’t need to worry about him anymore.” 

“Where is he?” Loki asked again.

The overpowered mortals looked at each other first. The Black Widow answered.

“In Asgard.”

Before he could stop himself, Loki let out a long and bitter laugh, nearly doubling over.

“Yes, I needn’t worry about him, it’s as you say. Thor is realms away, where he is exalted and drinking away everything your Coulson has taught him, and I am here, in the safety of my prison cell. Thank you, my heroes.”

Whatever Captain America was about to say was held back as Jan and Peter nearly skipped into the room—they were somehow managing to balance three trays of food each, rather clumsily. The atmosphere of the room lightened instantly as their faces lit up like children, children he once knew.

“Loki!”

“You’re awake!”

Peter nearly dropped the trays before Hawkeye and Black Widow could rush in to save them, while Panther and Stark took the ones from Jan. The two rushed to Loki’s bedside, restraining themselves from throwing their arms around the bedridden patient. The two chatty heroes jumped straight into a bout of nonsensical rambling before Hawkeye laughed weakly and Black Widow scolded them.

“Calm down and give him space.”

“Right, sorry,” Peter said, looking bashful. “Uh, how about lunch?”

Stark looked offended. “I offered to order from a classier place, so don’t blame me for the gruel.”

“Hospital food’s not as bad as it used to be,” Jan offered to Loki, though he could not remember eating once during his stay here in this prison. The smell of food made his stomach flip painfully. He covered his mouth and leaned over to the side of his bed.

Peter jumped away instantly. “Should we get a nurse?” 

“No,” Loki said weakly, scowling at the food. “I am… not hungry.” 

The heretics sighed in relief, only for Loki to vomit to the side of his bed not a second after.

Hawkeye looked at him wildly a few strained, silent minutes later. “Oh God, you’re not… Are you?”

Loki’s cheeks were flushed, few beads of sweat rolling down his temple and passed the raised eyebrow. He felt so tired, almost missing the others looked at Hawkeye, wide-eyed.

“This isn’t,” Hawkeye gulped, “ _morning sickness_ , right?”

“Barton!” Captain America and Black Widow nearly growled in unison. 

The Trickster wanted to laugh, while instead thinking of acting for their pity, just until he can stab them in the back—but, images of Thor and his blue eyes above him flashed through his mind, repeatedly, until his shaken panicking was no longer an act. The details were so vague in his blurred mind, yet the feeling of being stretched and violated was so clear. He couldn’t even hear the rapid beeping over his frantic attempts to recollect all of the pain in his mind. No, no, Thor didn’t find, there was no way—

“Loki, Loki, please, calm down!” one of the women, maybe Jan, begged.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to—”

Captain America barked orders, “T’Challa, get Strange! Now! Jan, give him space! Tony, Clint, Natasha, move aside until—”

“I’m not with child,” Loki said, staring at nothing in particular, silencing the others. The beeping stopped entirely. “The Captain… stopped him. Before…”

("Loki, _breath_ ," the Black Widow said to him, though he couldn't hear.)

“Yes,” he said slowly, eyeing the monitor warily, “I did. And he’s not here. You’re safe.”

“Safe,” the Liesmith repeated with disdain, closing his eyes. The brightness of the room, of these so-called heroes, nearly blinded him. He felt exposed— _vulnerable_. At that very moment, his world, his plans, seemed to crash upon him. “No matter where I go, Thor will find me.”

The machine screeched a long, uninterrupted beep.

***

“Tell me about her. About Amanda.”

The pathetic Avengers attempted to get him to talk to a psychiatrist, insisting it would be good for him, for the shaking during his sleep, for his heart. He denied them with his head held high and what little dignity he had left. He could only assume that they tried to take place of a “head shrink,” as the Captain referred to them. Their more personal questions were their way of gauging his mental state, in a sad attempt at helping him “heal,” as though he could reform and he would be all smiles and join their disgusting team of self-important vigilantes. He cursed himself for conversing with them, laughing at their jokes; how could the public misunderstand these pathetic, broken individuals and mistake them for heroes? How could these struggling, mortal beings help the God of Mischief? 

They were worse off than Loki.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“I know you didn’t.”

He knew the Widow wasn’t sure of herself. He was the Liesmith, after all; he generally knew when people were lying to him, and she knew better than the others to trust him. She couldn’t be that pathetic, to succumb to pity enough to trust him, even if that same pity did blind her enough to treat him civilly. You didn’t trust someone to pity them, and the Black Widow was probably the best out of the whole team to understand that.

Even by the schooled look on the young face, he knew she was still uncertain, no matter how very heartfelt his words were, no matter how true it was that Loki did not kill Amanda Victorson, Amanda von Doom, Amanda Lokison. So many names for a babe who might not be alive, nor in Valhalla. She could have been anywhere, in any time, given only a locket with her name to give her a sense of who she is. “Amanda von Doom” was engraved on it as a cruel joke, before he decided Doom would never meet this child. 

That was before Amanda was born.

“I lost one, too, a long time ago,” the Black Widow said. He wasn’t sure what she got out of telling him this – self-pity, maybe. 

“Why are you telling me this?!” Loki wanted to scream at her, but didn’t. He stared absently at her fiery red hair, which reminded him of a daughter he had with Volstagg, centuries ago, before his ridiculously fat friend wedded Hildegund. 

(Sometimes, when Loki was in heat, he made poor decisions. He doesn’t succumb entirely to mindless, animalistic rutting, but his rationale and standards did falter considerably—hence Doom. Had he known Doom’s more violent bedding practices, or what would result from two entirely different, powerful magics…)

The Black Widow almost reminded him of the strong woman – _Amanda_ , he convinced himself – gracing his dreams. 

“Perhaps, if I have another girl, I’ll name her Natalia.”

She gave him a weak, but genuine tug at the end of one side of her plush lips. Loki remained silent after that, and, as he predicted, the Black Widow didn’t press any further.

***

Loki wanted to turn away, to shun the man out of time away from him. The warm touch made his skin crawl, made it burn. In some ways Captain America was too much like Thor, from his stubborn gallantry and selfish, sentimental nostalgia to his golden hair and indescribably blue eyes. But Rogers is mortal, regardless of the super soldier serum, just like all the others—cunning, knowledge, wealth, sovereignty, or even sheer, physical power could not prevent the dark decay of death.

It was in that aspect Steven Rogers was not Thor. Not just this aspect, Loki told himself. There were so many others.

So, Loki closed his eyes and told himself it was okay to give into the touch, no matter how much it made his skin crawl or burn, or how much he had to restrain himself from remembering every moment Thor has touched him, as though pushing against a door of a room bursting, erupting. The firm hand, so very much like Thor’s, moved from his hand to the nape of his neck, branding him in a warmth that flooded Loki with chilling memories; the door burst open, and a tidal wave, a flood, a tsunami of very single moment Thor gave him no choice, touched him despite how hard he fought against it each and every time.

“It’s going to be okay,” the Captain said softly to Loki after another seizure-like bout during his haunted sleep, hand caressing the back side of Loki’s neck. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

And the turmoil of the storm in him calmed then, like the eye of the storm, only for the cold bitterness to seep into his body and mind. Once he stopped thinking of the moments Thor gave him no choice, he could not help but think of moments like these when Loki – despite all his attempts to fight back and all of his cunning and rationality and spite – chose to give in.

The Captain smiled and leaned down, planting a kiss on Loki's brow.

Oh, how Loki hated the Captain. He had nothing to offer but golden hair, eyes a shade of blue even the Wordsmith could not find words for, and a fierce loyalty that could rival Fenrir. Loki wanted power and chaos, not strong arms and languid kisses that felt and tasted like warm Midgardian sunshine. Chivalry meant nothing to a Trickster. His brother, favorite Son of Odin, once showered him with enough chivalry. 

“Once more,” he commanded the old soldier. Nothing, he reminded himself.

Next it was on the lips. Innocent, soft, fleeting.

"Again."

This time, it lasted longer. Deeper.

He made sure his voice sounded low and hushed and needy. "Again."

His arms snaked around the Captain’s neck as the man embraced him and descended upon him, lips meeting each other and opening readily for each other. The bed creaked underneath them as Rogers easily brought himself onto it without breaking their lip-locked kiss, now heated and wet as tongues brushed languidly against each other. Loki, eyes shut, could feel the upward curves of the Captain’s smile against his lips as they fell upon the bed together; the Captain ran a hand through Loki’s hair, other hand entwining with Loki’s. Loki felt a sudden sense of overwhelming blossoming in him as his cracked heart paced; but he did not break their long, deep kiss, even as the Captain intimately began caressing the side of Loki’s head, running his thumb over high, hollow cheekbones and setting Loki’s cheeks aflame. 

Something hard brushed against his inner thigh that made Loki tremble, though he hid it with all of his will power. Rogers emitted a low groan against Loki’s lips, breaking away slowly before staring into emerald eyes.

Loki murmured breathily in between kisses, "Take me, Captain.”

And like a good soldier, Captain America obeyed.

***

It went unsaid between them, but it was clear they were both aiming for the same goal.

Loki was regaining his strength and magic – it was only a matter of time until he would be forced into SHIELD custody and relocated at the Vault. So, the Captain came nearly every night to Loki’s bed after making sure to clear out any security.

“We have no time for games,” he said over his shoulder, gripping the railing, knees shaking.

But the good Captain simply smiled and pushed in slowly, like a chaste kiss.

“ _Ah_ ,” he inhaled, feeling himself stretch around the Captain’s thick, wet girth.

“God, Loki,” Captain America groaned, bending over to kiss into the crook of Loki’s neck. 

Like every night, the bed underneath them creaked repeatedly and suggestively in rhythm with the sound of their skin slapping against each other and the sound of Loki’s pitched gasps. Rogers continued pushing in and out with such maddening control that with each and every slow, full thrust Loki couldn’t help but let a shaky cry escape him.

“Fuck,” he cried as he rocked his hips, unable to stop himself. ( _It’s just fucking_ , he reminded himself. _This means nothing._ ) He tried to muffle his cries in the crook of his elbow. “Ah, ah…”

The soldier’s rough hands would always roam and caress his body. It made it harder for Loki to close his eyes and ignore all of this, to pretend none of this was happening. He buried his face in his arms, eyes shut, tried to think of anything but Captain America’s lips, hands and cock branding his entire body. He tried to keep his mind away until his favorite part of their coupling—when Rogers would spill his seed in him. It meant he was finished, and he was a step closer to having a child again. A strong one, who might live a long life. One who wouldn’t be taken away.

Loki kept his eyes shut, moving his hips in rhythm with the Captain’s, and reminded himself that this meant nothing.

***

“Hey, I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Loki gasped as Rogers, without warning, wrapped strong arms around a bony waist and nearly tossed the shaking deity onto his back, placing his head gently on the pillow. His watering eyes looked up to see clear blue ones, so concerned and so very striking, powerful. The overwhelming heat almost made Loki feel dizzy enough to mistake the span of golden skin and golden blonde hair for someone else. His touch was unwelcomed, but he needed it, he told himself.

“Are you still hurt from last—” 

“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

Loki wrapped his legs around the Captain’s waist, skin burning and mind set a blur from the overload of sensations as their lengths brushed together. 

Rogers chuckled as he brought up Loki’s long, pale leg and gave his calf a quick kiss that made the deity’s pacing heart jump. He trailed his kisses lower, lower, until he was hovering dangerously close to Loki’s manhood. Rogers traced a wet finger around the pink muscle of Loki’s entrance. Loki turned his head to stare at his gifts from the Avengers.

“I would never try to hurt you, Loki.” 

Loki parted his mouth, about to chastise the broad, muscular soldier to get on with it, but gasped when Rogers suddenly took his length into the soldier’s mouth. This is nothing, he told himself over and over again, until his mind was too foggy from the heat of Captain America’s mouth and tongue all over his hard cock, the sound of wet sucking and Loki’s heated breath echoing through the room. He keened and bucked his hips at the pressure of the finger pressed even harder on his entrance, threatening to push in entirely.

The last of his breath left him when, as his entire length was captured by the Captain’s mouth, Rogers pushed his fingers, dripping in lube, in gently; in and out, slowly and shallowly at first, then deeper in a unbearable rhythm matching his mouth.

“Captain—“ Loki cried, tossing his head back and the overwhelming sensations. His heart raced in his chest.

His assailant hummed against his cock, pushing two thick fingers deep into Loki.

“Stop, stop,” Loki barely panted, but Captain America didn’t—he gave the tip of Loki’s dripping cock a lick and began kissing along Loki’s cock, until he reached the balls, never stopping the frighteningly hot motion of his fingers.

Loki could almost feel Rogers smiling as he sucked at his balls and pushed three fingers in.

The same part of Loki that kept telling himself fucking was just a means to an end wanted him to stop, gripping at perfectly trimmed, blonde hair and pushing away. But when Rogers pulled away, he kept thrusting three fingers deep into him, all the way to the knuckle. 

“Look at you,” Captain America marveled, drawing himself up to look down with intense, blue eyes at the deity sprawled out underneath him, being stretched out by three thick fingers. He mapped his other hand along the pale, toned body, smiling when Loki nearly screamed and bucked bony hips closer when he reached somewhere deep inside of Loki. Loki hoped the calloused, roaming hand didn’t feel the painful beating of his heart. “You’re…”

“Ready,” Loki gasped. “I’m ready, you fool, just…”

He pulled his fingers out, leaned over, and gave Loki a deep, long kiss.

Loki whispered, “Steven.”

The god looked up at the built, muscle-bound man above him – perfectly sculpted like a god, like an Asgardian –, not focusing on the tanned skin or golden hair but the soft blue eyes that were fixated on his own. His breath stilled when he felt the tip of the soldier’s manhood press into his entrance, overly aware of how much he was shaking, how much his own manhood was hard and pulsing, already sent over the edge. 

Steven pushed in slow, like always, stretching and burning Loki open until he could feel Steve’s balls push up against his ass. They stayed like that for what almost felt like forever, eyes locked onto each other, adjusting to Loki’s tight heat and Steve’s large, hard cock. And for that short eternity, all Loki could see was his golden skin, his trimmed, golden blonde hair, his strong, square jawline; but, most of all, Loki could see the sky in those eyes, the eyes staring into his.

Loki inhaled slowly as Steve drew his hard cock out slowly, mind no longer distracted by any other thoughts besides the man above him and the cock easing back in him.

Loki tried to cover his mouth with his hand to keep himself from crying out, driven mad by the large cock driving in him repeatedly, but the soldier took it away from him. Even as the roll of his hips became faster and shallower, Steve entwined their fingers together, placed a kiss on Loki’s hand and stared deeply into emerald in such a pathetic display of tenderness and emotion it made almost made Loki, God of Mischief and Chaos, Trickster, Liesmith, want to cry. Loki did not miss the way those blue eyes seemed to drink in the entirety of his being, even as Steve gently held his hand with one hand, the other holding his leg thrown over broad shoulders; even as Steve continued thrusting his hot, wide length into Loki with such force and care that always hit the perfect spot with every push, he held Loki with an unfathomable gentle piety. It’s almost enough to help Loki dispel the voice, repeating, “I love you,” in the back of his mind, over and over again; it’s enough for Loki to know this is Steve Rogers, just Steve Rogers.

With his other hand gripping the sheets, knuckles bare white, Loki couldn’t stop the lewd sounds from spilling from his mouth; he would have the decency to feel embarrassment if he were not so utterly lost in lust, even more so than any of the times he was in heat. 

“Gods, _Steven_.” 

Steve began bending him further, thrusting deeper, until their lips were nearly in contact. 

“Loki,” he said, hushed, before kissing Loki messily. 

Loki reveled in the deep flush in his cheeks – he blushed so prettily – and the glossy haze of his sky blue eyes. Steve Rogers was as far gone as Loki was. It was beautiful. 

Steve fisted Loki’s length in between them firmly and started pumping in rhythm of his hips. Loki’s hips faltered, but didn’t stop the Captain’s wide cock from penetrating him deeply. He was overwhelmed by the heat both in him and around him, all from Steve.

“Oh, Steven, Steven,” the words spilled from his mouth, like honey. Steve drank in every drop, groaning and breathing hotly, gaping his name against his lips when Steve was close. 

Loki clenched, hard.

“Loki,” Steve gasped, “Jesus, I…”

Steve spread Loki’s legs impossibly further, still fisting and thrusting, lips parting as Steve drank in the sight of Loki, moaning underneath him. Loki arched his back, crying out over the sound of Steve gasping Loki's name when a white hot torrent filled him. Steve kissed his leg again, pumping at his cock.

Without warning, Loki came hard all over his pale stomach.

Steven said something between heavy breaths (it could have been a simple groan, it could have been "I love you," it could have been anything, yet none of it mattered to Loki), nearly collapsing on top of him, enveloping him in a warm blanket of skin. He drew himself out gently, earning a hiss from Loki.

Loki didn’t respond, but smiled when he squirmed underneath Steve, feeling the hot seed dripping from his sore entrance, knowing from the warm blossoming in his lower stomach that this would be it. Steve smiled back, unaware of Loki's thoughts, blue eyes shining throughout the darkened room, and brushed a strand of hair away from Loki’s face before wrapping arms around his waist and drawing him in for kiss. Steve ran his hand through Loki’s ebony hair, laying Loki against his glistening chest. Loki could hear Captain America’s fast heart beat slowing down, though beating loud, like drums on a battlefield. His own heart beat so hard it threatened to tear out of his chest.

All Loki had to do – all he could do – was bide his time.


	9. Thor, Godfather of Thunder

 

" ** _Thor!_** Jesus, Thor!"

His normally composed companion was panicked on the screen of their communicators. Giant-Man, seeming as small and mortal as ever, had beads of sweat rolling down his face. Thor looked at the puny thing, confused, as it was clearly not a battle field (and yet Doctor Pym kept looking back, yelling, “Oh my God, how is this…” in such a way only the worst of battles could do to him). But in the background, the God of Thunder could hear faint screaming. Cold, familiar screaming.

“Thor, it’s Loki, he’s…! Just… _just_ , come to the Vault! NOW!”

Thor stopped breathing at the shrill sound of his brother’s screams.

“You gotta—oh God, there’s so much blood! I-it’s _tearing_ him—”

The screams continued, spearing through his heart.

“ _Loki’s in **labor**!_ ”

Thor spun Mjolnir for what felt like forever, until he felt the ground ripping away from him.

***

The God of Thunder nearly tore through the Vault, heedless of the injured bodies he left in his path. Goliath had to grow out thrice his size to stop and calm Thor down, not without a minor beating. They made their way through the rubble, pushing past healers and angry Midgardians.

“Our medics are sewing him up right now in that room,” Pym replied, holding a bloodied rag against the gash on his shoulder. “He’ll…”

He took in a deep breath. Seeing Ant-Man always reminded Thor of Lady Wasp. He missed their lost, happier comrade, who surely by now must be rejoicing in Fólkvangr, or perhaps even the merry halls of Valhalla; or, maybe, she’s resting peacefully in Midgard’s Heaven. Though the concept seemed somewhat dull to Thor, he could not deny the allure of eternal peace.

No doubt Ant-Man missed her, too, but he moved on. If Thor were to lose Loki, he wouldn’t think he’d be able to move on as quickly as his intelligent yet unstable comrade did. But that was what humans did best, he supposed—they scurried about, much like the SHIELD agents scurrying about the smashed grey hallway, picking up after the Avengers’ mess and trying their best to get back to their fast, short lives.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I _will_ see him.”

“Not right now,” the scientist replied apprehensively. He stood there, at his normal, small size, as though waiting for Thor to say something. Blood dripped onto the pale grey floor; Thor thought of his brother pinned against the white wall by him, blood dripping from his skull.

Thor pouted, crossing his arms. Although he wished to see his brother at that very moment, he knew it would do no good to interfere with the healers, especially if it prevented his brother from waking up sooner. He has waited a year (it has been two years since his brother was submitted to the Vault; his visits during his brother’s time were not the most fruitful), centuries, a lifetime—he’d try to wait for all of eternity for his brother if he had to.

 “Look, Thor…just, I don’t know, find a seat, and we’ll debrief you, okay?”

The small man sighed heavily, wincing at his wound.

“Fury’s… going to want to ask some questions…”

Thor sat down and pouted.

***

“We thought he was yours at first,” Fury said. “Wouldn’t put it past you, you sick fuck.”

The lone eye glared at him, sizing him down. He could not help but think of his father. Fury was a frightening mix of the All-Father, Heimdall (and not just because of his skin color, Midgard has taught him better), and, surprisingly, Loki. He knew all, saw all, and was capable of manipulating all. Thor respected the man as much as he hated his lectures. His greatest weakness, however, was his very human – very short – temper.

“Then we thought…it’s been too long, he hasn’t done anything that fucking stupid since, unless you somehow got around surveillance. But, if Loki’s pregnancies where to last longer than the standard nine months…”

Fury was on the right track, but Thor didn’t bother affirming or denying it. He simply looked up with sad, pleading eyes.

“The child is not mine.”

The words were bitter on his tongue.

“Then who?”

“I know not.”

“Lemme guess, because you aren’t your brother’s keeper?”

He _is_ his brother’s keeper. His brother is his, as he is Loki’s. Thor frowned.

“I do not understand.”

“What I don’t understand is why you still don’t get our fucking slang even though you’ve been here forever,” Fury muttered exasperatedly. “Besides that, I get it. You don’t know everything about your brother. But if you know something about this, then you better tell us.”

Thor wished he knew. He wished he knew so could throttle the one who dared touched his – _his_ – brother. The only thing he knew was that he was not the father. His frown deepened at the thought of Captain America, his brother-in-arms, the man who stopped him, tore him away from his brother. The child could have been his, if not for Captain America’s untimely, stubborn interference.

Yet it would be petty to think ill of his lost comrade, after mourning and celebrating his victorious death, despite the circumstances they are in now (Thor still found it hard to forgive Iron Man and Ant-Man—no, Yellowjacket—for the slight, the abomination to his honor). They have been through many challenges together, including his brother’s madness. Captain America was a great warrior, and Thor respected him for his steadfast honor, which was no doubt what the leader thought he was acting upon when he interfered that night. Thor appreciated that Captain America was honorable enough to extend his concern to his wayward brother, knowing most others would be quick to persecute him (but the Captain could never understand Loki the way Thor did).

“I wish to know as much as you do.”

The director huffed, turning his back away from him, rubbing his temple. He knew Thor was speaking the truth. Thor was a poor liar, though he wasn’t too bad at keeping secrets.

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” Director Fury scowled, but said nothing for a while.

Fury nearly barked, “We’re going to find out eventually, and if I think that he _or_ his baby’s a threat…”

Thor did not need to hear the rest. He simply nodded, but not without patting Mjolnir for reassurance.

The Director stalked away, but gave one last command before he left.

“Take care of this, and keep an eye on him.”

 _Of course_ , he told himself. _Always._

***

Thor remembered when he first touched his brother.

They were young then, and, although it had been thousands of years ago, Thor remembered most of it. He remembered that, perhaps, it might have been when they were first introduced to each other as brothers. They were not babes, as others may have guessed, but they were young enough for the memory to be hazy (toddlers, Midgardians called them). Thor only remembered seeing this curious little child, pale like snow and such cold, pretty eyes, an impossible color that he had never seen before in one’s eyes.

“Brother,” was Loki’s first shaky word to him, and immediately Thor brought a curious hand to the boy’s pale cheek, pushing away midnight black hair and squeezing his brother’s (his!) cheeks for no other reason than because he could. From then on, they’ve never really stopped touching each other (really, it was Thor who never stopped touching Loki, but Asgard, charmed by the prince-brothers’ endearing if not odd love for one another, assumed Loki accepted it; allowing it to happen was the way Loki showed his affection, really, his way of touching others without touching, and the two brothers were always seen together, for a long time, until adulthood).

Thor remembered on his name day coming into adulthood when he first _touched_ his brother.

He had flagons upon flagons of mead and wine throughout the day (and Loki had a few flagons as well) but Thor remembered more than he deserved to, while Loki either did not remember or chose not to acknowledge any of it. They were young, then, but Loki was not a child, while on that day Thor was, finally, formally considered adult. Thor had matured enough to acquire a taste for certain luxuries, in more ways than one.

“My apologies, Brother,” Loki said as he slithered into Thor’s room. His lip quirked up in amusement, watching the honored man stumble to the large bed.

Thor remembered all of the little details, despite the excess of wine he had. He remembered the way the moonlight shone through the flowing curtains of his window, illuminating his brother’s face in the darkness. He looked ethereal, almost, like a white star against the black night sky.

“What is it,” Thor slurred. “What mischief has my dear little brother conjured tonight?”

“Oh, the Warriors Three have cleaned that up already, but that is not the issue to which I am referring to.” Loki said nonchalantly, already at his feet, helping the fumbling prince take off his boots. “The virgin you asked us for, for your name day present.”

“What of ‘er? Is she ugly?”

Thor threw an arm around his brother, who laughed, attempting to push him away.

 “No, but the virgin is a virgin no longer.”

Thor huffed into the Loki’s hair as he draped lazily onto him. Even with the haze in his mind, Thor could remember the smell of his brother that night, something he’s only started noticing when the moon began to fill out. Loki was changing in a way he couldn’t describe, and it worried him, just a little, because he _liked_ it.

“And you thought not to find a spare.”

“I thought Fandral had more self-control.”

“Hmm,” Thor hummed against Loki’s cheek. “It is no matter.”

In just that moment, he thought of the time he first touched his brother, the way Loki was presented to him as his little brother, as though Loki were a present just for him. He chuckled and tightened his embrace. After a deep inhale, eyes closed to savor the scent, he pecked at Loki’s exposed neck with small kisses.

Loki nearly flinched.

“Here is a spare, already in my arms.”

“ _What_ ,” he said flatly. His eyes narrowed.

“I love you, Loki.”

Loki hesitated, attempting to draw away. “And I, you.”

“Then will you not give me this gift?”

“Brother, I think you’ve had too much—”

Thor sealed their lips together, silencing any further objections by forcing his tongue into Loki’s mouth. It was that moment on, when the overwhelming heat of Loki’s open mouth nearly melted him on the spot, when Loki drew a hand to Thor’s chest (perhaps, Thor reflected later, to push Thor away) and no doubt felt the war-like, violent beating of Thor’s heart, Thor knew Loki was his. Loki’s response, nearly sighing into him, confirmed it in Thor’s mind.

They broke apart gasping for air. The room felt cold without Loki’s touch, but when he drew back nonetheless, his breathe was stolen by the sight of his moonlit brother, high cheeks and ears stained prettily with blushing red. His dark hair was in debauched disarray, weaving about white skin.

“I think that’s good enough for this name day,” Loki said, chest heaving.

But Thor’s eyes trailed along his brother’s long, pale body, and did not miss the raising arousal in Loki’s leggings, nearly matching the one in his own. He wanted Loki so badly, and perhaps it was the mead, but he thought his head and heart would explode then and there if he could not have him. His own cock was hard, throbbing, and he simply _wanted_. There was no doubt in Thor’s mind that Loki was his flower to pluck.

He launched himself at his brother, pinning him face down onto the bed.

“Thor, what are you—stop! No!”

“But Loki,” Thor groaned, incapable of stopping himself from grinding against his brother’s ass for the sweet, hot friction, skin separated by the thin layers of cloth, “I want this, gods, look at you, you want this, too.”

“No, Thor, I don’t,” Loki hissed. He was shaking. “Stop— _I’m not a virgin!_ ”

Thor froze above him.

“Is it really true, Brother?”

“Yes, it’s true.” The lie was smooth, and Thor almost fell for it. “Two moons ago, while we were in Vanaheimr, with a Vanir warrior.”

“Then, you would not mind letting me have you, seeing as you’ve done this before. With a Vanir, no less,” Thor mused, watching Loki’s eyes widen.

“Thor,” Loki panted. “Stop, don’t…”

“Loki…”

They looked at each other.

“Did you not say that you love me?”

“Yes, Thor, I did, always, but…”

“Please,” Thor _begged_ , and Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard, never begged for anything in his life, “Brother, please, let me have this, let me have you.”

His eyes were green, almost like spring grass in an untouched forest, damp from morning dew, but shining like stars. Thor remembered all the breath-taking details of his brother—the way his emerald eyes flickered through the darkness, the way he looked up through his lashes, the way that rosy blush stained his porcelain smooth skin, the way his black hair spilled across the pillow and bed like ink, the way his swelled, wet lips parted tauntingly. It was an image he had burned in his mind, an image he savored forever, his handsome little brother, all his.

But he could not remember, no matter how hard he tried, whether Loki said yes or no—only that Thor had him, and loved him.

***

Only two days later and the babe was large, too large for a normal Midgardian newborn, leaving Thor to wonder how Loki could put himself through such a painful ordeal every hundred years (give or take a few decades). He pushed the thought of another man having his brother every century away, far away from his mind, focusing on Loki’s newborn instead.

He was large but still pinkish, wrinkled and vulnerable as all newborns are. But unlike most others, he already had a tuff of dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes that, whenever opened, studied his uncle with more care and intelligence than a babe should be capable of—with the heavy gaze like that of an artist, or a scholar. He was no doubt Loki’s child, but Thor dared not guess who the other parent was. Loki, Thor mused, must have chosen his mate based on the blonde hair and blue eyes. Surely the Liesmith lied to himself most of all.

“No doubt he will be a mighty warrior, Brother,” Thor laughed. “With a strong mind, like yours.”

“Hm,” Loki replied absentmindedly, not daring to take his green eyes away from the child.

Thor basked in the warm, swelling feeling in his heart as he wondered how much they looked like a family huddled together in that small room. He looked over his shoulder for a portrait-taker, a camera, something to mark this happy occasion, with no meddlers around. There was no Fandral, Balder, Doom. No Captain.

Was Captain America in this “Heaven” now? The large and bulky soldier did not suit the look of angels, who Thor took to understand were much like harpies, but serene and beautiful and mostly human rather than bird. (Human like X-Men’s Archangel.) Thor furrowed his brows and stared at his brother, who – despite all his mischief and madness – at the moment was the most serene and beautiful being he knew, smiling (not with his thin lips, but with his bright, Yggdrasil-green eyes) down at the golden babe in his arms, enveloped in white sheets and a thin white gown. His brother had the look of an angel, he thought, but his comrades on many occasions referred to the Trickster as “The Devil.” Thor had to admit that was more accurate.

“Don’t think too hard Thor, your head is likely to burst.”

That was the first real sentence Loki has spoken to Thor in almost two years.

The widest smile stretched over Thor’s face, though Loki did not respond. He only looked as cold and impassive as ever, trembling slightly. It must have been due to the birthing, Thor thought.

“Brother, I have missed you.”

Loki glared and hissed at him fiercely, backing away when Thor reached to touch his brother’s face, but said or did nothing else when Thor retracted his hand. He returned his attention to cradle and rock the babe at his bosom.

“I will see the other Avengers. They should be a good source of amusement for my child.”

“They have their duties, Brother, but I am here.”

“Hn.”

A painfully quiet moment passed by them.

“I suppose your face is quite amusing.”

“Not one of your wittier remarks.”

“I _just_ gave birth, Thor.”

The babe barely managed to wrap its pink fingers around Loki’s thumb.

“Make a funny face.”

Thor contorted his face. Though he knew not how funny his face looked, the child responded with the smallest hint of a smile, something not too unlike Loki when amused. The blue eyes sparkled as they studied Thor, who couldn’t stop grinning at this babe, this golden nephew of his. If Thor were king now, it would be too easy to take Loki and his son, and say this child is theirs. They could rule together, side-by-side. At that moment, Loki looked at him, with emerald, jewel-like eyes—stony, polished, and cold.

“Thor, you truly are the biggest, dumbest fool in all of the Nine Realms,” Loki said suddenly, as though his thoughts were said aloud.

“Takes one to know one,” Thor replied, a Midgardian comeback he learned from Peter.

The babe let out a quiet, unrefined giggle as Thor frowned at himself. It sounded much wittier when Peter said it. Loki stared at him with the same emotionless, stony emerald eyes. He was clearly unimpressed, but, at the very least, Loki was looking straight into his eyes now. Only Loki’s eyes could break his heart so.

“That is very clever, Thor, have you learned that from little Spider-Boy? I must be such a fool in your eyes.”

“Yes,” Thor replied without hesitation, “but I love you nonetheless.”

His brother closed his eyes, drawing the sniffling babe close to him. The silence between them was deafening to Thor.

“I’m sorry, Loki.”

He meant it, from the very bottom of his heart. “I—”

Loki’s eyes fluttered open, piercing through him, sharp and focused.

“I will kill you if you touch me.”

Thor laughed uneasily. As much as Thor loved Loki, with every living beat of his heart, he hated Loki just as much, and would kill him if he had to. He hated the madness that consumed Loki and drove him to evil. He hated the way Loki’s visage would be marred by wrath and wrinkles whenever he sneered during their battles. He hated whenever Loki whored himself to anyone, human or Aesir or Vanir, anyone who wasn’t _Thor_. As they fought, Thor would always put every ounce of power he had behind his blows, with the sick wish buried deep inside: that maybe this is the day he could win for good—the day that maybe, just maybe, Thor would finally kill his wayward love.

Thor gazed over Loki’s bedridden frame, before swallowing dry, trying to calm himself. He eyed Loki’s neck, pale and thin, as though carved from ivory.

He could kill Loki right now, while he’s still weak from the labor. (Loki’s births often left him vulnerable and bedridden for days, usage of magic unpredictable and unadvisable.) He would do his beloved brother mercy, by sending him to Valhalla, where surely Loki would wait for Thor—or, perhaps, would be born anew, or born again into Loki of the past, free of madness.

But as Thor’s blue eyes flitted from thin, jagged facial features to the soft, rounded features of the babe in Loki’s arms, Thor softened into his tiny chair. They could make this work, Thor told himself, staring at the whiff of blonde hairs on the babe’s head. They loved each other enough, he knew. They could make eternity work, the two of them.

Loki kissed the babe’s cheek and forehead; if anyone were to guess it was to reassure himself that the babe was there, Thor would not doubt such reasoning at all, given previous births and babes. Thor could not take his eyes away from Loki’s lips, nor the lashes against Loki’s high cheekbones.

“You are lucky, Thor,” Loki said suddenly, “I have chosen you to be the babe’s godfather.”

Thor’s eyes widened.

“Not _that_ kind of father, you idiot.”

He slumped in his seat.

“It’s a sort of Midgardian tradition.”

Loki looked up, at the blinding white ceiling. Perhaps, he thought, Loki was looking up at Asgard, at home.

“It means many things, but what I mean is, should I meet my untimely demise, you must care for him.”

Thor nearly jolted onto his feet.

“Yes, of course, Brother, I—”

“But only if you grant me one thing.”

Thor waited, but knew he had little will power to say no, regardless of what Loki would say.

“He must have a place in the line for succession. He is my blood, he has the blood of a king. He may not be Asgardian, but he is mine.”

Loki did not mention who the other father was, whether the other father was a king or royal or _what._ But Thor nodded nonetheless and reached for the squirming babe.

“No! You must _swear_ to me,” Loki hissed, nearly tearing his godson further away from his arms, “Vow not to tear him away from me like my others.”

“I would do no such thing, you know this, Brother! Not to an heir!”

“And yet you stole my children away from me—”

“Loki—”

“—and **killed** them!”

“ _They were **monsters**!_ ”

Thor saw Loki’s heart shatter, through those glassy green eyes. He opened his mouth, an apology almost passing his lips, but he stumbled.

“Hela… Hela is fine now, Loki, she is powerful, a ruler, a queen.”

(Thor did not bother to mention that she was just as mad as Loki, but, honestly, Loki knew that himself.)

“Thanks to _me_. You and the Allfather would have left her there to rot,” Loki spat scathingly, fire nearly bursting out of Loki’s mouth like a dragon.

“The others, they are—”

“ _Slaves!_ Banished, exiled, murdered!”

Thor froze. He loosened his grip on Mjolnir as shame flooded through him, for reaching for her in front of Loki’s birthing bed and his nephew, and for the memories flashing through his mind of Loki’s children, so powerful and chaotic but still _Loki’s_ , slain by the very same weapon at his belt.

Loki had to see that Thor was shaking now. Could Loki hear Thor’s heart, beating madly beneath his chest? (Did Loki hear it, centuries and centuries ago?)

He stood from his chair, kneeled at the foot of the bed, eyes held upon the golden babe, whose face wrinkled and mouthed towards Thor. He grasped Thor’s rough, calloused finger loosely. Thor marveled the softness of the babe’s skin with the gentle brush of his thumb.

“Child,” Thor whispered, and then his godson opened his eyes, so very blue eyes, and held his gaze. “I am your uncle. Your godfather. You might be a king, one day. You have that right, in your blood…”

He looked up, unsure, at Loki. Loki was cold and stiff, eyes wet and bright, intensity and brilliance never faltering even against the heaven-white walls and ceiling of their room. He looked back at Loki’s son, eyes wrinkled and closed again, hand grasping Thor’s ring finger a little tighter.

“By my oath to you and your father, I swear your place in the line of Odin.”

“Do not treat this one like you do the others,” Loki commanded, very much like a prince, a king.

“Never.”

“Do not let Father have this one.”

“I swear.”

“ _Swear._ ”

“Upon my life.”

The right edge of Loki’s ghost pale lips moved up, just a little. His emerald eyes glistened, but he shut them before Thor could marvel at them. Slowly and carefully he placed the young heir into Thor’s large, awkward arms. The princeling let out little quiet sobs, almost like hiccups, but gradually calmed with Thor’s gentle, clumsy rocking and hushes.

Silence crept through the room, interrupted only by the drum-like pulsating of Thor’s heart. The two princes lifted their eyes from the babe and stared into each other’s—electric blue eyes fixated and locked onto grassy, emerald eyes, never daring to move.

Thor inhaled deeply, working up all the courage that left him at the door of this white-grey healing room.

He leaned in and kissed Loki, softly, on the cheek. The babe squirmed in between them.

The air felt cold, still, as Thor shifted.

“I’m still alive,” Thor whispered against Loki’s lips, hoping Loki heard him over the sudden cries of the princeling.

“Oh, you stupid, giant oaf.”

When he felt the upwards curve of Loki’s lips, Thor kissed Loki, chastely and full of love.

And, Loki allowed it to happen.

In that golden instant, the two— _three—_ of them enveloped in white, together, Thor thought of Heaven. He pressed further, gently cupping Loki’s rigid cheek as though he might fly away at any moment, but his fears began to slip away when Loki sighed and rested a bony hand over Thor’s. He opened his eyes and stared into glossy green eyes.

 “Yes, my dear _brother_ , you are still alive.”

Liquid warmth flooded over him, heating his shocked body before he could even feel the cool sharp metal slit his throat.

“Because I will never grant you the mercy of Valhalla.”

Thor took weak, shaky steps back, unable to keep Loki – who rose from the bed with grace and ease – from taking back the shrieking babe, drenched in his godfather’s blood. The glistening of Loki’s green eyes pierced through his entire being, even as his sight began to blur. The deep red blood stained his failing vision as much as it stained the golden princeling and the angelic white blanket wrapped around Loki.

Loki tilted his head, white face splattered with red. His voice rang in Thor’s mind over the cries of the golden cherub drenched in blood: “We will do this forever, Thunder God.”

Seconds weren’t something Thor understood easily.

“Up until the End of Days.”

They were so short and insignificant in his long, long life; he could hardly grasp the concept. Thor is immortal, he always gets back up in the same way that Loki always runs.

“I will hate you, hurt you, until the very end.”

But in those few seconds, Thor fell. That day he fell for what felt like eternity. The hazy sight of his Loki standing in drapes of white and blood, surrounded by a blinding whiteness began to fade away just as slowly, as though a feather falling from Heaven.

***

Only two days after Thor’s name day, Thor caught Tyr fucking his brother in the armory. (And Thor, although he consumed no mead that day, couldn’t focus on or remember any of the painful details, the way Loki latched onto Tyr’s broad shoulders, Loki’s long legs wrapped around the warrior’s waist, the sheen of their sweat on their skin, the way Loki cried out _Tyr_ , not _Thor_.) If Thor didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have guessed Loki to have let them get caught. But the only thing he managed to remember that day, the most painful detail of all, was Loki’s heavy gaze, the star-like sparkle in his mischievous green eyes telling him everything. He ran away feeling betrayed, brokenhearted.

Soon after, Hela was born, and the two brothers were never quite the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should get someone to beta, or someone to push me to churn out chapters faster... hahah a h ah a but seriously I'm not feeling this chapter, I might end up rewriting it. Hmm. Anyway, this takes place shortly after the Civil War event (hence Cap & Wasp being dead).


	10. Steven Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I should do you guys the decency of releasing the last chapter, even if it's rough/unedited, before moving on to a new fic. Not exactly happy with it but otherwise I would have never finished this fic. I just want to thank everyone for reading up until now! Thank you!

The silence of the open road was broken by the loud, unnecessary revving of his bike's engine—he could have fixed it up to be silent with modern gear, but sometimes Steve Rogers needed the old timey sound to block out his thoughts, his memories. The happy tunes of the funeral, of the past he lived and relived, of the phonographs spread out underneath cities of rubble and ruin. Steve thought of the mothers and fathers who mourned their children in a free country and in every other country, of the letters and packages parents sent out to their sons a day or a week too late, of Loki’s long and somber face, even of Sharon’s face as she pulled the trigger. Loki’s was the face of a father whose son lived a long fulfilling century, blending in with the sorrow of a dead soldier’s mother, and the painful sight of an orphaned package at base, never to be opened by the loved one it was meant for.

His lip curved upwards when he thought of Loki, of those nights in Loki’s “cell,” a room the Avengers set up in an abandoned hospital for him after the incident with Doom.

 _“How… why didn’t I know it was you?”_ Steve asked one night, because none of it made sense. His century-year-old sketchbooks were filled to the brim with a grim but beautiful Mr. Brookson.

He laid propped on one elbow next to Loki, both naked save the blanket Steve threw over them.

 _“A simple memory spell, combined with a cloaking one,”_ Loki replied absentmindedly. He made a big show of being uninterested after sex, but Steve was sure it was simply to save face and to avoid talking afterwards (something Loki didn’t enjoy, along with cuddling). He smiled as Loki huffed and turned away from him. _“It would have been much more difficult to erase my being from every involved person’s memories. You simply remembered Bjarte had a father, though you knew not his facade belonged to me.”_

He revved his bike again, thinking for the thousandth time of Sharon and the bullet that killed him, and what “dying” was like, but all he could remember was waking up once again thrown out of time.

O

“Bjarte’s not home,” Bart’s father said curtly, seventy years ago.

“Oh,” was Steve’s reply, and the door was slammed shut.

In truth, Steve already knew Bright Ol’ Bart left for France. The first time, when he didn’t know, he simply ran back to sketch tall cheekbones and to try to enlist again. But, with a swelling anger and defiance stuck in him, he stayed near the foot of the stairs. (He thought he’d be happy, being back in his old time, but it was overshadowed by Iron Man’s stubbornness, all of his friends and achievements in the future, his frustration towards the government, whether it be pro-registration of the 2000s or the government of the early 1940s that denied him from enlisting so, so many times before one amazing man saw his worth.)

“Wait.”

Steve turned around this time. The smell of apple pie hit him instantly.

“I baked too much,” Loki said, emotionlessly. “I forget he will not be home to eat… Not today.”

The young man, dwarfed by the near-giant on the other side of the doorway, nodded, and stepped inside. Maybe it was simply the fresh-baked apple pie sitting on the table, or the draft of a simple home away from the harsh Brooklyn snow, but Steve suddenly felt warm.

O

His eyes widened at the rider on the motorcycle about to pass by him—she must have been about fifty or so feet away, but her all black attire, stature and flaming red hair whipping about behind her in the wind was unmistakable. As she zoomed past him, she saluted with her usual knowing smirk, not in the least bit phased by the sight of her fallen comrade.

She went by so fast, and he was so surprised, that he almost missed the two young children riding shotgun in the sidecar and the young teenager behind her, holding her tightly behind the waist.

His bike roared as loudly as the thunder in the desert sky above him.

***

This Indiana building – simple, homey, and inconspicuous – was no Xavier’s School for the Gifted, but it seemed big enough for fifty kids, more or less. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of a familiar Asian-Caucasian man trimming the bushes under the partly cloudy sky. The grim man turned to see Steve setting his bike along the driveway, grunted, and turned away, but added a gesture with his free hand that said, “This way, now stop bothering me.”

It didn’t make sense for the Avengers’ favorite bartender to retire just to become a garden keeper at an orphanage, but at least Steve knew for sure he was in the right place.

He sped-walked past the bartender-turned-gardener to the side of the building almost as fast as Quicksilver himself, but froze at once in front of the fifth window at the sight of the young brunette – tufts of soft brown hair barely stuck out of the habit – woman dressed in a clerical navy blue and white.

“ ** _Jan?!_** ”

The young nun turned her head towards the window, eyes and smile shining way too brightly for a woman who was supposedly dead.

“Hey! Wait there a minute, okay?”

She turned back to her class with such an air of maturity and nurturing, hushing down the curious class leaning closer to the windows to sneak a peek at the mysterious muscle-bound man outside the windows. Steve wasn’t sure if this was the same Wasp they had all mourned, the same young woman Hank Pym loved and hurt and lost. But she looked like Janet van Dyne, and even smiled like her, innocently (though it might have been the holy attire).

The students happily left the room covered in art, science, history, English, all kinds of projects (he wasn’t sure what to make of the “February’s Special Guest Speaker: Spider-Man!” poster on the whiteboard), waving and smiling back at their teacher. Some lingered, trying to get a better look at the stranger, but Jan gently guided them out, and they listened to her without question. Steve didn’t think she’d be so great with kids.

“Sorry for the wait,” the sister said. She opened the windows further and leaned against the sill, sticking her head out to get a closer look at him. “But. Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were dead,” Jan laughed brightly, tears suddenly surging from her brown eyes, and this is the Jan he knows.

Steve patted her on her thin shoulder, trying not to tear up as well. “I could say the same for you. Everyone really misses you.”

She smiled widely. “Not as much as they miss you, probably! Though they shouldn’t. Not many heroes stay dead anymore.”

“Well…” Steve squeezed her shoulder, as softly as he could manage, and thought it was better not to give her the body count. “Hank misses you the most. He’s… Jan, he’s...”

But her smile never faltered, even as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Yeah, I know. I know. But he shouldn’t be sorry. He shouldn’t have to be sad. He doesn’t need me to forgive him, Cap. Not me.”

He’s not sure what she meant, and before he could ask, she asked, “How are Hank and Tigra doing, by the way?”

The question almost caught him off guard. He’s not sure what kind of answer would make his friend happy. “They’re…”

Judging by Jan’s bemused look, his inner conflict must have been written all over his face. “Come on, give it to me straight, bub!”

“They’re, well, good, last I checked. They just had a kid.”

Unexpectedly (though in character), she nearly squealed as she squeezed her cheeks – one side stained by a wet tear-path – together in excitement, “Aaaaw, they had a baby!”

“Well, sort of, a baby—”

“Is the baby feline, like Tigra?”

“Yeah.”

“A _kitten_!” she nearly shrieked with glee. “I need pictures! I’m so happy for them!”

Steve smiled, unsure what to make of all this. “Did you fall into a time-vortex too, or…?”

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “I faked my death, sort of, not really by accident. Spent some time in a tiny microbe planet, Pym Particles can be such a hassle sometimes. Loki planned it all. I helped, of course!”

The old soldier stared at her with furrowed brows.

“Ta-da!” she laughed nervously, twiddling her fingers.

“Jan,” Steve said, “I… we all miss you. We were... it was hard.”

She looked at him with, eyes suddenly losing their shine, smile wilting just a bit. “It’s just ‘lil old me.”

“But Hank…”

“He’s happier now,” she said, confidently, her mind already set. “You know… Henry… God—oh, sorry, I shouldn’t use his name so lightly now, huh? But, I was so stupid and selfish and… I’ve been going about this all the wrong way, and in the end, it hurt Hank.”

She looked up at the cloudy blue sky, smiling to herself.

“’Some people are better off without you,’ Loki told me once. He’s right, you know..”

She hurt Hank, a lot, Steve can admit, but that didn’t justify this, this wasn’t fair for her or anyone, he thought.

“That’s not—”

“And you? Do they know you’re still alive?”

A long pause.

“…no.”

“Won’t you tell them?”

The answer’s obvious enough.

“No.”

Her smile is back at full force, and it’s contagious. He wondered if he should tell her that Hank has been the happiest he’s ever been, that he’s had the most control over his wild emotions since she’s been gone; but Steve can’t tell if such news will make or break her heart, even if, by the looks of it, it’s something she already knows.

“He looks a lot like you, you know,” she said suddenly, and the remark made his heart stop.

“Where?”

“He’s napping right now, but Loki’s in the gardens. You should play catch up while I fetch him.”

As she turned away to pick up papers from her desk, she giggled and – unlike a proper nun – said, “If you two start doing grown-up stuff, make sure the kids aren’t around!”

 

***

 

There Loki was; tall, all limbs and straight lines and sharp edges, head held regally as always, but with no hint of green on him, only two emerald eyes, matching the deep green of the spring grass and forest around him. No armor or cape or suit, just all black save for the white clerical collar. A timeless attire, and Steve could not say that the look didn't compliment the rigid man, who was soft only in the eyes when he looked upon the children running by. It did raise a lot of questions, though.

"Rogers."

"Lo—"

He stopped himself.

“...Father.”

Loki nodded.

“It's good to see you again,” Steve said, and he meant it.

The "father" – Loki really is a father, a father of many – patted the heads of the small kids clinging onto him (a small one literally clung onto Loki’s skinny, mile-long legs). The children looked at Steve with awe, some with curiosity.

"Are you a superhero?" one of them asked. “You look familiar.”

"I think he's a soldier," a young, teenaged Latina replied, studying him with squinty brown eyes. She wasn't clinging onto Loki like the rest, but standing in front of him instead, as though Steve were some sort of threat. Feet shoulder-length apart, eyes straight ahead like a soldier. She was being cautious. "How do you know Father?"

"Don't be rude, America," Loki said dismissively. "Go on now, help Sister Janet prepare lunch while I have words with this old soldier."

Steve watched as the handful of children left. He smiled wide and turned back to Loki.

“She reminds me of you, but with much more sass.” Loki said dryly. “Too much, really. She will no doubt continue giving me trouble well into the future.”

"What's with the get-up?"

Loki threw his head back and laughed, rather genuinely.

"I’ve heard enough confessions to earn this, thanks to you Avengers.”

Steve didn’t know what to make of that.

“A man can get away with a lot, wearing these robes."

“Do all of the kids have powers here? Mutants?”

Loki smoothed down the non-existent creases in his attire.

"Not all of them."

"You don't think they should be at—"

"Wolverine's? Or Cyclops'? Or your Goliath’s? And for what, so they can learn to slaughter each other?" Loki raised a brow. "No, these children deserve more than some mindless, superhero boot camp of a school spewing in politics and rivalries, least of all some… _Battle Royale_ rip-off. Norns know what else they're teaching, probably something ridiculous like the Fastball Special…”

Loki walked over to the side of the building, leaning against the wall casually in a very un-priest like manner.

“But our children are free to remain here or leave if they wish, to find a mother or father or whatever else I can help them find."

Steve doesn't know much about Loki, but he knew Loki was adopted. He found this all very ironic. “Are you sure you can handle the gifted ones? You and Jan, on your own?”

“Powers or no, they are all gifted.”

Very, very ironic.

“And… ours. Is he…?”

Loki smirked, emerald eyes glistening. "Gifted."

“All of yours must be gifted.”

He didn’t respond, which Steve took as a sign to shuffle through his pocket, pulling out his wallet. Loki arched a brow as Steve took a photo out.

“Amanda’s gifted. Strong, like you.”

“Oh,” was all Loki said, before Steve found himself being violently shoved against the building’s wall. (The sound of the wall cracking was faint, but his back definitely felt it.) Vibrant, crazed green eyes pierced through him.

“Where did you get this? Why did you do? _Why_ are you doing this?”

Steve stood his ground. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _You know exactly what I mean!_ ” Loki yelled.

“You went back, somehow, back in time, you changed something,” he went on. “I can feel it, though my memories are a blur. During the war…”

Loki scowled, while Steve smiled.

“All I did was talk to you—”

“Don’t take me to be a fool. I’m not your damsel, your whore for you to save in return for a good _fuck!_ ”

His breath was caught in his throat, the same way his body was caught between Loki and the chipped wall behind him. If it were a normal fight he might - _might_ \- stand a chance, but this was a loaded battle of words. Anything he could have said or done could have meant anything, and no doubt Loki would have a quick-witted reply laced with poison that could kill him or scar him forever. But Steve knows, even this flawless god before him had scars. They both do. And Steve knows they both can live with a few more.

So, without hesitation, he brings his right hand up to Loki's nape as gently as he can, and leans in.

It's chaste, their kiss. Fleeting, but Steve will never forget it, the way Loki inhaled slightly, stops breathing all together when their lips touch. It made reliving the past, fighting the war, wandering aimlessly through time suddenly feel less like suffering, and more like a minor obstacle.

***

“I’m surprised you found me,” Loki said quietly, closing the door behind him. They're in his office, and it feels used. Papers, books, receipts, all neatly stacked or set aside in an organized disarray. “Even Thor hasn’t found me, yet. Even though he's a fool, he never fails to find me.”

“Well, it took me practically a year, in a sense. Thor’s been kind of busy. Everyone is, now.”

He took a deep breath.

“Ever since you went to the Vault, everything has… It’s, just, it’s just been crazy.”

Heroes were turning against each other, villains were posing as heroes, both heroes and villains – and so, so many civilians – were hurting, dying. They’ve seen the world threatened, on the brink of danger, but he had never seen a war on this scale.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Steve laughed softly. He can't stop staring at the long man leaning against the long bookshelf. 

Loki took a deep breath. “No matter where I go, Thor will find me. Just as you have.”

“And I’ll always find you.”

“If Thor comes?” Loki eyed him. “Will you kill him?”

“No,” though the dark thought ran through his mind before he could banish it a second later, “but I’ll stop him.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t stopped Thor in their fight before Loki was taken to the Vault. Thor simply stopped on his own, staring with dead eyes at Loki dragging himself towards the door.

Steve called out to Loki, but he wasn’t heard. Instead, Captain America took Mjölnir and, though Thor put up no resistance whatsoever, swung at the god’s head with all his might, sending him flying through walls. Thor didn’t bother returning fire. He simply sat up, and stared at his own hands. He's never seen Thor so dead before.

Whatever Thor did after, Steve didn’t know. He just turned around and walked out the door to Loki.

“And Fury?” Loki’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. “The Avengers?”

Steve hesitated. He wanted to reach out to Loki, but he was steps too far away.

“I’ll stop them.”

The father threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh, Captain,” Loki sighed.

Loki strode to Steve, clearing the large clerical office in an easy 3 steps. He felt Loki's icy cold hands on both his cheeks. But Loki's frigidly long fingers did not send chills down his spine as much as Loki's eyes, piercing green through him like blades of ice.

"You wouldn't make a very convincing priest."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against Steve's. Despite the coolness of Loki's ethereal, sinuous body pressed against his, Steve's body temperature skyrockets immediately. 

"You'll have to grow out your hair, perhaps forgo shaving. The children or people in the nearby town might recognize you."

Steve ran his hand through Loki's pitch black hair, humming, trying to get a better look at the man's downcast eyes. He barely touched Loki's chin, coaxing him to look up.

"Loki, I..."

Loki took his hand, bringing them down, but doesn't let go; instead, he entwines their fingers together. His fingers are so cold, Steve wonders if they'll freeze, and whether would they stay that way forever if they do. But Loki simply chuckled.

"You really are such a fool."

Steve laughed, "I'd be surprised if I weren't."

Loki did not let go of his hand as he stepped away and faced the door.

"Let's go meet our child."

***

All of this was just a dream to Steve. Before the Super Soldier serum, he’d dream of having a perfect, all-American family. Afterwards, he’d dream the same dream. Before, it could have never come true, because who would fall in love with someone like him? Scrawny, ill, stubborn, too idealistic for his own good. Afterwards, he was still stubborn and idealistic, but his dream was achievable—just improbable. The world needed saving, the world needed Captain America. He could never stop and rest, he could never put his loved ones in danger again. He almost thought of Sharon and the family that could have been, him and her _and the baby_ , but the small bundle of warmth in his arms and the warm smell of apple pie made all the sad thoughts go away.

This is the dream Steve has finally, thanks to Loki, seen come true. He smiled wide at Loki, who pursed his lips, slightly quirked upwards at the side (in a way, Loki’s equivalent to a wide smile), as he set down the picture perfect apple pie on the table, just like he would always imagine his lover would, in Steve’s dream. Kids came clamoring into the kitchen, bundling around the large, awkward dad, drooling over the pie and cooing at his drooling baby.

“It’ll surprise you, but Loki makes the best apple pie.” Jan said, smiling as she walked in with a basket of ripe apples, in a way that reminded him of his own mother, or the sisters at his orphanage. “I don’t get how we always have so many left over apples, though.”

"You know these children's special ability is to consume massive amounts of everything," Loki chuckled as he swiftly and cleanly cut a picture-perfect slice of pie. "They'll give Galactus a run for his money."

He placed the slice on Steve's plate and placed it directly in front of him, then took the baby out of his arms. The children and Jan surrounded him, while Loki sat across the little table with the baby - smiling a wide gap-tooth smile, with only five or sixth teeth growth in so far - in his lap. 

"Well, go on," Loki said as he stroked their son's little locks of blonde hair.

"Here it goes."

Steve looked around and smiled, cheeks hurting from pure happiness, as he grabbed his fork. He neatly carved himself a piece and brought it to his lips.

 

 

It tasted golden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I… I just wrote this because I wanted to write something including Loki wearing a priest outfit and [Amanda von Doom](http://marvel.wikia.com/Amanda_von_Doom_%28Earth-616%29) somehow… Only took a few fucking years of sitting in my documents, neglected, and then a shit load of things happened in MCU, Jan has been alive the whole time instead of dead, blah, blah, blah. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you, reader. Many, many, many thanks for all of your kind comments and kudos. If you guys have any requests feel free to message me, though I'm not super huge on Marvel anymore. Can people message on here? idk


End file.
